Crucial
by scrub456
Summary: SEQUEL TO "INHERENT." Five Times John Watson and Greg Lestrade Met on the Roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital One Time They Didn't (7 chapters in all). Post Reichenbach. Chapter 1: 7 May, 2012; Chapter 2: 4 May, 2013; Chapter 3: Repose; Chapter 4: 4 May, 2014; Chapter 5: 4 May, 2015; Chapter 6: 22 December, 2016; Chapter 7: 19 October, 2024. *NOT BRIT PICKED* this one's dark
1. 7 May, 2012

**PRESENT: Monday, 4 May, 2015**  
 **221b Baker Street**

"If we're going to do this, you cannot interrupt me," John's voice wavered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No, Sherlock. No. You always talk, and I always listen. I may not understand, but I always listen. And eventually you help me to see. Well, it's my turn to talk now."

"But, I was alive John," Sherlock condescended.

John looked away, and took a deep breath. "Yes, Sherlock, I know that now. But I wasn't."

"Nonsense," Sherlock waved his hand indifferently, in an effort to remind John that he was, in fact, alive and seated next to him.

John closed his eyes and sat very still for a moment. If Sherlock had physically slapped him the sting would not have been so severe. "Right. Well, we're done here then."

Slamming the laptop resting between them closed, and despite the complaints of his bruised and broken body, John moved to stand from the couch. "Watch them if you want, but I'll not sit here and let you insult me for suffering, which YOU caused by the way."

"John?" Sherlock's eyes were wide with… hurt? No, not hurt. Concern? No.

He couldn't be certain, but John thought perhaps he read guilt in Sherlock's eyes.

Or the closest thing to guilt Sherlock Holmes was capable of.

With a sigh John settled on a new approach. "Twenty minutes ago, when you thought I was dying, what did you experience? Review the data."

Sherlock sat thoughtfully for a moment. "I don't see…"

"No. Data. Give me the data."

"Why does it matter?"

"Whatever it was you were feeling, at that moment, was enough for you to tell me you love me," John explained, as he settled himself back onto the couch. "For Sherlock Holmes to make any sort of sentimental confession, there has to be something…"

"Despair, okay? What I felt was despair." Sherlock hung his head. "Knowing I had already given up two and half years with you, and had only just gotten you back, the thought of losing you forever, being left here, alone, was unbearable."

"Sherlock?" John's voice was barely audible. He waited for his friend to raise tear rimmed eyes to look at him. "Exactly."

"John…" Sherlock whispered.

"Except, I didn't have to imagine it. I had to watch that despair and loneliness become my reality. Add to that the guilt of feeling that I didn't do enough." John exhaled deeply, and grimaced with pain. He opened the laptop and brought up the video dated 7 May, 2012.

"John…"

"Don't. Just… I haven't even seen these. Please, just let me do this, okay? You know how hard this is for me, bringing up the past. Don't interrupt, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded silently.

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **07/05/12**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

It was never John Watson's intention to end up on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital…

* * *

 **PRESENT**

"The date is wrong, John," Sherlock pressed pause and motioned to the corner of the computer screen.

"What did I say about interrupting me?" John snapped.

"But the date, John. I jumped on May 4th, not May 7th!"

"Yes, we've established that, Sherlock. This is the first time I went up there, that doesn't mean it was the first anniversary."

"I don't…"

"If you would let me talk, I could explain. Now be quiet and drink your tea," John implored. "And don't stop the video again. I'm serious."

Sherlock sniffed. "Fine."

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **07/05/12**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

It was never John Watson's intention to end up on the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Yet there he found himself, seated on the ledge of the roof, in the very spot Sherlock had jumped from, his back to the street below, both feet planted firmly on the rooftop, facing the smear of blood and skull fragments that James Moriarty had left behind when he had blown his own brains out.

Mycroft had assured John that Moriarty had ended himself, that Sherlock had no part in the criminal's death. Pity.

John shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun as he scanned his surroundings. The day was gorgeous, verging on too warm, which hardly seemed fair; he had assumed the day of the funeral would be overcast and dreary.

One last contradiction, just as Sherlock would have wanted it.

He didn't know what he was looking for. Something.

Anything.

He loosened his tie, undid the restricting top button of his shirt, absently swiped his hands over his knees, and inhaled deeply. "C'mon, Sherlock. Talk to me."

Closing his eyes, John attempted to sort it all out in his mind. Certainly he had nothing so complex as Sherlock's mind palace to organize his thoughts. But he was a doctor and a soldier - a diagnostician by trade and a strategist by training.

He knew how to compartmentalize, recall, and sort information, Sherlock just normally beat him to it.

"Sherlock." A strangled, broken plea.

Pounding a fist down on his thigh, John swore under his breath.

* * *

 **PRESENT**

"HEY! Why do _you_ get to stop the video?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because it's my story," John rebutted. Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration. They silently agreed that was a terrible reason.

"The reason I stopped is because I'm not sure exactly how long I just... _sat_ up there. A good long time, I know that. So I'm getting ready to tell you what I was thinking about while I was just sitting there. And then we can fast forward to speed things along."

"Ugh. Your internal thought process is so labored and... dull... John. Can't we just skip it all together?" Sherlock huffed and sunk deeper into the couch.

"No we cannot. There are a few things you don't know, because Mycroft didn't know them. I... figured a few things out." John ducked his head to avoid Sherlock's questioning look.

"What things? John, what did you figure out?"

"Hmm," John hummed knowingly as he pressed the play button.

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **07/05/12**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

"Sherlock." A strangled, broken plea.

Pounding a fist down on his thigh, John swore under his breath.

"Think, John."

That Sherlock Holmes had taken a walk off the ledge of St Bart's roof just days earlier (three? Only three days?), had not been a part of the plan. John couldn't say for sure what said plan had actually been, but it had involved Sherlock being brilliant, coming to an impossible conclusion based on improbable proof, and him taking notes and keeping the consulting detective out of harm's way. The result should have been Moriarty locked up forever. Or maybe John could've had a go at shooting him. That would have been both acceptable and satisfying, to say the least.

John's intention was for this case to be the same as every other case. They'd come out victorious in the end, if a little worse for wear. Exhausted, egos a bit bruised, but intact. Together.

Then Sherlock had jumped. He'd plummeted to the ground with a nauseating thud, and pulled John's whole world down with him.

 _Sentiment. Stop. Focus._

There was no adrenaline rush of the after case high. No shared late night Chinese take away. No knowing glances and inappropriate snickering from the wrong side of the police tape.

There was only John, frantic, kneeling over the still, ethereal form of his friend as tendrils of blood spread out across the pavement.

Hands pulling him away.

Someone had been shouting. Maybe it was him. He could never really be sure.

Shock.

He had clenched his fist when the tremor in his left hand started, until he realized his hand wasn't the only thing shaking.

John wasn't sure how long he knelt there, knees and chest aching. Long after they had carted off Sherlock's body he slumped there, eyes focused on nothing, reminding himself to breathe, and failing miserably.

He should probably cry, yeah? That's what people do (oh... nope... that phrase would not be revisited any time soon). But there weren't any tears to cry. No sobs to release.

No sorrow.

Only loneliness. It raked its claws over his heart and infiltrated his mind.

He was alone.

Again.

So alone, even his own emotions had abandoned him. His senses betrayed him.

There was nothing.

 _Positively maudlin, Watson. Get it together._

A car door.

 _Yes, start with that. It all gets twisty with the car door._

Because the whole Moriarty disaster, and Sherlock doing the swan dive off the roof, wasn't _quite_ screwed up enough.

The approach of a familiar footfall.

He knew to expect the metal tip of an umbrella before it snapped into his line of sight, soon to be followed by polished high end leather.

Something in the ridiculously mundane sight of this unwelcome interloper forced John to recover himself, and he focused his sight on the pattern of the blood pooled on the concrete just behind the wool clad legs in front of him.

 _There. Right there. Something was wrong._

He'd seen enough blood patterns, too many in fact, to recognize the difference between blood that had fallen to the ground from above and blood that had flowed out at ground level. There was something off in the way Sherlock's blood was pooled.

 _Definitely not right._

"Mycroft," John managed through clenched teeth.

"Doctor." Startled by the cool detachment of the other man's tone, John looked up sharply. From his vantage point, the already imposingly tall elder Holmes towered over him. He hadn't expected to find sympathy or compassion on Mycroft's face, but as it was his own brother's blood that marred the sidewalk, John had expected something. Grief. Hurt. Anger. Anything.

What greeted John were lips pressed into a tight thin line, gunmetal eyes fierce in their ability to be unreadable, and an overall posture of steeled reserve.

Nothing.

Mycroft revealed nothing.

 _Also wrong._

John had seen this stoic facade before. It was all very Holmesian. But John knew Mycroft well enough to know that when a situation came down to Sherlock, big brother had a "look." It was protective and fierce, if muted and barely discernable to the uninitiated.

No. This look was a put on, and it was for John's benefit alone.

 _Very not right._

"Help him up," Mycroft ordered one of his lackeys. John struggled against gruff hands that pulled him to his feet, and wavered a moment trying to regain his equilibrium. He took a breath and stood at attention, or as close to it as his still shaking nerves would allow, in an effort to let the man in front of him know he'd not tolerate inane abuses.

"James Moriarty is dead. Blew his own brains out moments before Sherlock jumped. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been placed on administrative leave, effective immediately, for his part in allowing a sociopathic amateur detective and an invalided army doctor suffering from PTSD to traipse around his crime scenes and contaminate evidence. Every case Sherlock consulted on, every piece of evidence the both of you handled, every scene you stepped foot on, has to be reopened, reevaluated, and now risks being thrown out and the criminals being released into society." Mycroft was all business, quick and calculated in his delivery. John barely had time to take in all that had been said before he continued.

"Sergeant Donovan and her merry band of idiots have been sent out to collect you for arrest. They have been dispatched to Baker Street and your clinic. They will be here next. I suggest you join me in the car, unless you fancy an evening in lock-up."

John had nodded curtly, and followed Mycroft to the idling vehicle. He paused only long enough to scan the puddle of Sherlock's blood once more and snap a quick photo with his mobile.

"John," Mycroft motioned to the interior of the car. The sound of distant police sirens caused them both to turn and scan the street beyond them, only briefly, before hastily retreating into the safety of tinted windows and locked armored doors. Mycroft nodded at the driver and away they sped.

Having slumped down into the plush leather seat, John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Why." He knew he needn't elaborate. Mycroft was a Holmes, after all. He could do more with one syllable than most could do with a thesis.

"Assault charges. You did strike the Chief Superintendent, did you not?" Mycroft pretended not to hear John's distressed groan. "The Superintendent is an acquaintance, strictly business. Horrid man. I have arranged for the charges to disappear as we speak. More complicated, however, are the claims that you were an accessory to kidnapping. Those accusations cannot be simply swept away as they are tied to this whole," here Mycroft gestured with his hand, as if brushing away imaginary crumbs in the air, "Moriarty debacle that Sherlock has... _had_... got himself, and now you, mixed up in."

The stutter was unexpected. John didn't allow himself to respond, he only cast a quick sidelong glance at Mycroft, long enough to catch the elder Holmes blink his eyes closed slowly, and for just a fraction of a second longer than usual.

A bit not good, that. Especially if you're Mycroft Holmes.

For John Watson, it was everything.

"I will need a few days, but with your stellar service record, I am confident we can supply enough character evidence to have the claims dropped. Though you will likely receive summons to testify. Until then I have arranged a room for you, under an alias. You are to remain invisible until..."

"Until the funeral," John interrupted. "I'll not miss the memorial service."

Mycroft sighed with exasperation, in the way only a Holmes could, and the sound forced an unexpected twinge of grief to explode in John's chest. "Very well. Though do know you are severely limiting my ability to help you."

"Didn't ask for the help, though it's appreciated," John snipped, "but I'll not be prevented from attending my best friend's funeral." The words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Of course. I'll contact you with the arrangements," Mycroft had completely recovered his cool demeanor. "Will you be wanting to say a few words at the memorial?"

"I... ah..." It was John's turn to hold his eyes closed a beat longer. He had been Sherlock's flat mate, colleague, blogger, and friend. It would be expected of him to speak. To not would indicate weakness on his part. He was a lot of things, but weak was not one of them. "Fine. Yes."

"Very well," Mycroft nodded smugly, as if he already knew the answer, and the reason behind it. "Anthea, send Doctor Watson's measurements to Antoine. He will be in need of a _decent_ suit for the memorial service. Shoes, belt, tie as well."

John, startled, sat up straight and noticed Mycroft's mysterious assistant seated in the corner of the seat across from them for the first time. She hummed a barely audible acknowledgement of the instructions given her, never lifting her eyes from her phone, though the rate of her typing increased drastically. "He'll be at the room tomorrow at 1:30 to make adjustments," she stated with bland indifference.

"Thank you, Anthea," Mycroft nodded once, and looked at John.

"What... What's that now?" John stammered.

"You mustn't leave the hotel. For your own protection. I have taken the liberty to provide everything you will need for the next several days. You'll find clothing, sleepwear, toiletries, a laptop, all at your disposal. Room service has already been prearranged, as I must insist you maintain your health. I could do nothing to stop my own brother's self destruction, I will not stand idly by and allow you to descend into his madness." Mycroft had always taken a rather disdainful tone when addressing John in the past. That his voice resonated with the condescension normally reserved for Sherlock caused something deep inside John to snap.

Not just _something_. No, specifically, it was his propriety, the pretense of decorum that he had worked years to construct, that cracked into a million little shards, exposing the rawness of his loneliness.

Utter desolation.

Desperation.

Feral, wild heartache.

"H... How dare... How. Dare. You." A threat as much as anything else, John's voice remained even, but the danger behind the tone forced even Anthea to glance up for a fleeting moment. John clenched and unclenched his fists.

Mycroft noticed.

John relished the fact that Mycroft noticed. The corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly.

"This is," John began quietly, controlled, so that Mycroft had to strain to really hear him, "as much your fault as it is anyone else's. Certainly the blame lies with Moriarty and his sick game. And with Sherlock for taking the bait. Fault falls to Lestrade and his officers for jumping to false conclusions. I failed in my own responsibilities, as Sherlock's friend, to protect him. But you... _You_ ," in a flash of agility that took Mycroft completely by surprise, John took advantage of the excess space between the seats of the car and had crouched in front of the elder Holmes, fisted a handful of his impeccably pressed shirt, and pulled his face within centimeters of his own, "betrayed him. Sold him out to the highest bidder. What was it? Information for information? This. All of this is on you. I hope it was worth it, _Judas_. Your brother is dead. Sherlock is dead, Mycroft." John spat the other man's name with venomous force, and shoved him back into his seat.

Taking his place next to Mycroft, John continued, "You don't get to dictate my life just because you feel guilty. You think you can prevent my descent into madness? You clearly haven't been paying attention. It's been a slow decline, but one that started long before I met Sherlock. Everyone thinks I grounded him, tamed him somehow. They're all blind idiots. We balanced each other out. He did as much to pull me from the grips of lunacy as I did for him. Now he's gone? There's no hope for me. I'd very much appreciate it if you'd just leave me to my misery. Just... forget you ever knew me. It'll be better for us both in the long run." John faltered slightly as he ended his tirade, but he continued to hold his head high and maintained eye contact with Mycroft.

When Mycroft shied slightly away from John's frigid glare, the doctor noted a definite sense of... accomplishment? Pride? Yes, pride. He had out iced the Ice Man.

"This is just part of..." Mycroft paused, eyes wide. For the second time, Anthea looked up sharply from her phone. The elder Holmes attempted to recover, "Sherlock would want this. For you to be protected. He never intended..."

 _Wait just a bloody moment. Mycroft Holmes was genuinely floundering._

 _Wrong. This is very, very wrong._

"Stop," John snapped. "I don't know what you're playing at, what the end game is here. So let me lay it out for you. I will cooperate with your little plan to clear my name. I'll be a good little soldier and obey orders to stand down. But the minute the funeral is over, we're done. Do you understand? And beyond that, you _will_ do everything within your power to get Greg Lestrade reinstated, fully. I'm not forgiving him any time soon, but THAT is what Sherlock would have wanted. I don't care what happens to Donovan or Anderson, or the whole lot of them. They can rot for all I care. But you will help Lestrade. And you will. Leave. Me. Alone."

A moment later and the car pulled up to a garishly ornate hotel. John could easily imagine the Queen herself staying there. "God, Mycroft. Really?"

Anthea pulled an envelope from a very well concealed pocket, and handed it to Mycroft, who in turn slapped the packet into John's hands, his apathetic demeanor recovered. "Turn off your mobile. Now. No outside contact. No one. Antoine, 1:30 tomorrow. I will contact you; you will know it's me. If you attempt to leave before our agreed upon time, I will know, and necessary action will be taken to detain you. Do you understand?" John nodded with as much civility as he could muster. It wasn't much. "Good afternoon, Doctor," Mycroft issued the dismissal with indifference, and John took his leave without looking back.

John made his way to his room slowly, taking in the excessive opulence down every corridor. He was fairly certain he was underdressed. As he approached his room, he noted Mycroft's goons, ill-disguised as hotel staff, posted sporadically. He also noticed the poorly concealed bulges that indicated they were fully armed.

Lovely. If Donovan had arrested him, at least the guards wouldn't be carrying guns.

An errant gasp escaped as John stepped into the room he'd been assigned. If the corridors were excessive in their opulence, the room itself was superfluous in its extravagance. He was suddenly overcome with the fear that he was going to break... well, everything. Even the temporary indentations his shoes left in the plush carpet wracked him with guilt. God. What the bloody... Mini bar. John scanned the exorbitant price list and shrugged. Mycroft was paying. He grabbed four, hmm, no, five small bottles from the refrigerator without even looking at the labels, and dropped them onto the oversized, pillow laden bed. There was a brief moment where he considered showering and changing into the sleepwear Mycroft had provided, but honestly, who had the energy for such needless exertion? Especially when a fully stocked mini bar required his attention.

Toeing off his shoes, John stripped to his boxers and undershirt, flopped across the bed and opened the first bottle.

The whole weekend got just a touch blurry after that.

Okay. More than a touch.

Unfortunately there were some things he just couldn't forget.

While John's father and sister were always violent drunks, John himself was more disposed to becoming emotional when he drank. All the tears he couldn't seem to find as he knelt over Sherlock's body made their way to the surface that first long, bleak night alone in that hotel room with only his thoughts and the mini bar to keep him company. He hadn't even been able to watch television because it seemed every station was reporting the suicide of the fake genius.

He knew he hadn't slept at all that first night. He remembered a lot of cursing. He cursed Moriarty. He cursed LestradeandDonovanandAnderson as if they were one three headed conglomeration of a beast, and the whole of Scotland Yard. He cursed Mycroft. Vehemently.

And he cursed Sherlock. Oh, he really laid into Sherlock. Such vulgarities and venom. For every lie, for every wrong, for every little slight, perceived or otherwise.

John cursed Sherlock for being a coward, for taking the easy way out, for making him watch, and worst of all, for leaving him alone.

There were more tears, though medically speaking, he wasn't sure how that could be.

Then John remembers begging. Pleading. But not to a deity he wasn't sure even existed. No, he pleaded with Sherlock. To forgive him for the curses. He took them all back, every single one. _See, Sherlock, it's okay, you can come back now. It's okay. Really._ He promised to be better. To be braver, to be faster, to be a better shot, to be cleverer, and more forgiving.

But Sherlock never answered.

So there were more tears.

And the mini bar grew dangerously near empty.

It was in the throes of more drunken weeping that the illustrious Antoine made his entrance. It was the worst suit fitting either of them had ever experienced. The only thing they agreed upon was that neither would discuss the encounter once Antoine walked out that door.

John was 73% positive he had vomited in Antoine's sewing kit. He would never know for certain though, because despite everything, Antoine was a man of his word.

After that John decided he probably did need to bathe. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, and though it was probably just his imagination, all John could smell was death.

Once he was clean and wearing the pajamas Mycroft had sent, which he figured cost more than his entire wardrobe, he attempted, unsuccessfully, to eat something from one of the long abandoned and cold room service trays. John couldn't remember anything after that. He wanted to believe he fell asleep, but based on the number of empty glass bottles littering the room, he most definitely passed out. He desperately needed the rest, but once the alcohol started working its way out of his system, his mind started to clear, and recall.

And then the nightmares came.

Nightmares (plural).

Nearly half were simply Sherlock standing on top of St. Bart's. Sherlock tumbling through the air. Sherlock bleeding on the pavement. Over and over and over again.

Those dreams would have been more than enough torment, but John's mind had decided to punish him back for the abuse he had done with the liquor. At some point during his anguished sleep John's dreams shifted from London to Afghanistan, and every wound he had dressed, every soldier he couldn't save, passed back under his helpless hands, and every mangled one of them, at some point during his fruitless efforts, morphed into the likeness of Sherlock.

He woke from one such dream just before dawn on Sunday, and spent most of that day violently ill.

His only remaining friend, the mini bar, had turned on him.

A telegram arrived for him. Of course Mycroft would communicate by telegram. The memorial service was set for Monday (Monday? Tomorrow?) morning. John spent the entire evening and long into the night attempting to write a fitting eulogy for his best friend. By the time Mycroft's car came to collect him for the funeral John had managed some dry toast, aspirin and tea, a shower, to dress in his new suit, and to write exactly two words on the notepad he found in the hotel desk.

The service was held graveside and the casket was closed. The shiny black granite headstone stood attention, bearing the name of the one to be memorialized.

 _Odd, yeah? Grave markers take weeks, sometimes months to prepare and place. And where are the dates? Birth to death?_

John had been to far too many gravesides to overlook the peculiarity, even considering the Holmes money and influence.

Attendance was sparse at best.

John had tuned out most of what was being said, and was staring with deep intent at the headstone. He was startled when someone said his name. It was his turn to speak. He stumbled only once, and made his way to the front of the small company. Mrs. Hudson's tears started anew when he made eye contact with her, and he had to look away. Molly avoided his gaze altogether. Lestrade appeared to be as hung-over as he himself had been not many hours before. And Mycroft glared. Everyone else, which amounted to about a dozen people, only a few John recognized, stared at him with sympathy. He'd seen that look before. Made it himself far too many times. It was the look of pity one reserved for the despairing widow of the dearly departed. John cursed in his mind; he was not Sherlock Holmes' bloody widow.

He steeled his nerves, narrowed his eyes, and stared back at the small gathering until a few of the guests began squirming uncomfortably. Mycroft had the audacity to clear his throat. John snapped his attention to the elder Holmes and suddenly realized Sherlock's parents were not in attendance. He knew Sherlock had parents, simply because he worked so hard to avoid them, and Mycroft made every diligent effort to include Sherlock in family functions.

 _Wrong. Wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong. They would be here. This is wrong. So very not right._

Digging in his suit pocket, John pulled the small notepad out and read over the words he had scribbled.

Yeah. Neither of those words were appropriate for mixed company, let alone a funeral for a man who, if John's growing suspicions were correct, wasn't actually dead.

With a shrug of his shoulders, John shook his head. "I've got nothing. I can't, I won't, do this." He ripped the page from the notepad, crumpled it up and tossed it into Mycroft's lap as he stormed away from the gathering.

"John? Dear?" Mrs. Hudson cried after him, and Lestrade stood to follow after him.

"Let him go," a rather scandalized Mycroft hissed as he re-crumpled the note and shoved it into his pocket.

With nowhere else to go, John caught a cab to Baker Street. The place had been tossed. John growled. Donovan would pay for this. He could think of 13 ways to kill her with her own badge, and not leave a mark.

 _A bit not good, Watson._

He rummaged through the bookshelf, and found the pack of cigarettes he had hidden from Sherlock two months ago. God. Two months. John headed to the kitchen and found a thermos he was relatively sure hadn't contained one of Sherlock's experiments, and carefully poured in what was left of the scotch Lestrade had given him for his last birthday. He made sure the clip in his gun was full and tucked it against the small of his back, grabbed an ink pen and a lighter from Sherlock's desk drawer, and slammed the door to 221b behind him.

Good riddance.

And so he found himself on the rooftop of St. Bart's.

* * *

 **PRESENT**

Sherlock sat silent for a beat. "That was..."

"Tedious? Dull?" John supplied.

"Hmm? No. I was going to say... enlightening. We'll have to discuss your observations later. I need to... process this information." Sherlock seemed deep in thought.

"Oh, well, okay Sherlock." John had hoped Sherlock would've been pleased with him, but this was Sherlock Holmes after all. "I'll fast forward now."

"Very well," Sherlock nodded slowly. "And John? I don't say this often enough. No one does; you're never given enough credit. But you really are brilliant. That," Sherlock pointed to the screen, and then gently tapped John's forehead, in an effort to indicate John's mind, " _this_ is amazing. You are amazing."

John was grateful his face was slightly battered, so that the bruising could cover the blush that was spreading there. He nodded his head in thanks, words escaping him, and pressed play.

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **07/05/12**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

And so he found himself on the rooftop of St. Bart's.

He wasn't going to jump. He didn't have the stomach for it. Too much time to think before the end result. Even that was sketchy.

And wasn't that really why he was on the roof? Because it didn't happen often, but people _had_ survived horrific falls, and if anyone could, it would be Sherlock. John pulled the notepad and ink pen from his jacket and began a list.

Proof Sherlock is dead:  
1\. No pulse.  
2\. So much blood.  
3\. They zipped him in a body bag.  
4\. Death certificate (?) Haven't seen it in person yet.  
5\. Funeral.

Proof Sherlock is still alive:  
1\. Moriarty offed himself, why would Sherlock have to die?  
2\. Lack of pulse can be faked. Reference: the four other times Sherlock pulled that trick, and twice he fooled me.  
3\. He said "It's a trick. It's just a magic trick."  
4\. The blood was pooled as if poured on the ground, and not as if it had seeped out. *see photo  
5\. Mycroft misspoke, and then blinked.  
6\. Mycroft misspoke again, and couldn't recover his initial thought.  
7\. Closed casket, could've been empty or weighted.  
8\. Headstone placed only three days after death, no birth/death dates present.  
9\. Sherlock's parents were not at the funeral.

Well. Perhaps Sherlock had been right all those times playing Cluedo. Maybe the victim could have done it after all.

"Now what?" John shouted at the sky. "What am I supposed to do now, Sherlock? Just sit here and wait for you to come back?"

John tossed the pad and pen away from him and buried his face in his hands.

"God, Sherlock. What have you done? I'm acting like a lunatic. Denial. Isn't that one of the stages of grief? Well, cheers to that, I'm finally doing _something_ right for once in my life." With that John took a drink from the thermos and winced as the liquor hit his already weak stomach.

He cast a quick glance over to his notepad and realized the pen had rolled off towards one of the air conditioning units. From his slumped position he saw something catch a glint of sunlight.

"Hello, what's this now?" John shrugged off his suit jacket, tucked his gun and his tie into the inner pocket, and laid it gingerly on the ledge. He approached the cooling unit and got down on his stomach to conduct a search.

There. Just within his reach. A familiar piece of technology.

Sherlock's mobile.

He had tossed it to the side before he jumped! John did remember that.

"Oh God. Oh my God. Sherlock. You bloody brilliant idiot." The battery was dead and the glass was cracked, but John knew a guy who knew a guy ( _oh God, thank you Sherlock_ ) that could get past all that to access the contents.

Even if he couldn't prove Sherlock was still alive, though at this moment no one could convince him otherwise, he could at least prove him innocent. Sherlock would have recorded the meeting with Moriarty. Why wouldn't he have?

"Sherlock Holmes, when I find you I am going to kill you myself!" John screamed at the sky, unable to restrain a breathy laugh or to hold back tears. He picked up the pen and pad, and shoved them along with Sherlock's mobile into his jacket pocket.

He wouldn't be writing that note he had been outlining in the back of his mind after all. Now he had a purpose. If Sherlock really was dead, he would have time to mourn him after he cleared his name.

"Focus on the case, John." He turned to look out over the city, to see what Sherlock saw. Of course, he would never be able to see the way Sherlock saw, but maybe he could catch a glimpse...

Maybe...

What if, just for a moment, he stood where Sherlock stood? Could he feel what Sherlock felt? Perhaps see some great new insight? Strictly for research purposes. "For an experiment, John," he mimicked the phrase he'd heard a thousand times.

With a quick look around John stepped up to the ledge with extreme caution, feet spread a little farther than normal, and arms out to his sides just slightly. The view was dizzying and exhilarating all at once. He could see clearly where he himself had stood as Sherlock said his goodbye. He scooted forward a few centimeters, just so he could look down the side of the building and see what Sherlock saw as he fell.

It was terrifying and everything went a tad fuzzy for a moment. A bit not good.

Just as he moved to slowly step back off the ledge, the door to the roof burst open and a familiar voice screamed his name. John's new dress shoes had not yet been sufficiently broken in, and his foot slipped, causing him to pitch forward...

* * *

 **PRESENT**

"Sherlock? Sherlock breathe. You're going to pass out. In and out. Slowly. C'mon Sherlock, breathe," John paused the video only after he managed to pry his aching sprained wrist from his flat mate's death grip.

"Sherlock! Snap out of it! I'd smack you if I could, but it really would hurt me more than it would hurt you!" John commanded.

Sherlock blinked. And again. Then drew in a slow, shaky breath.

"Where's Lestrade? Get him here now. I'm going to kill him," Sherlock growled.

"God Sherlock, calm down."

"I... he... you..." the consulting detective huffed, unable to formulate a cohesive sentence as he motioned to the frozen image of John on the ledge.

"Yes Sherlock, Greg knows better than to run into a situation and startle someone who is literally on the edge. But he wasn't thinking clearly here," John was using his calmest doctor voice to ease Sherlock back from the brink of uncontrollable rage.

"But, look John. Look at you. You could die!" Sherlock's voice continued to rise.

"Sherlock. Hey, look at me." John laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder only to have the other man wrench away from his touch. "Sherlock Holmes, you idiot, look at me right now!" John demanded with his Captain voice.

Dragging the back of his hand across his eyes and inhaling deeply, Sherlock turned to John with tear rimmed eyes. "You were never supposed to go up there, John. I can't. I don't want to see any more. I can't take it."

"I've already told you, I didn't go up there to kill myself. I was never going to jump. And not that I want to spoil the ending but, Greg being an idiot didn't kill me either," John chuckled at his joke, but Sherlock only glared in return. "Just, let's finish this one, and then you can decide if we go on or not, okay? This one's almost done. I promise."

Sherlock exhaled deeply, and nodded. "Right. Proceed."

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **07/05/12**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

Okay. John stepped back. Door burst open. Lestrade screamed. New shoes slipped. John pitched forward.

Slightly. Barely at all. He righted himself almost immediately.

Unfortunately, Lestrade was under duress, very hung over, and terrified of another friend pitching himself off the roof of St. Bart's. In a demonstration of pure adrenaline, the D.I. reached John in ten steps, grabbed the doctor by the back of his belt, swung him off the ledge and pinned him down.

"You idiot! What do you think you're doing? God John, you bloody moron, why? Why would you do such a stupid, selfish thing? God. GOD. So stupid. Scared me to death. Get up so I can kill you myself!" Lestrade raged, gasping for air. His hands were shaking as he fisted handfuls of John's shirt and dragged him up. "I said get up! What were you thinking?"

"Get. Off. Me. Now." John threatened.

"Not until you bloody well explain yourself!" Lestrade shouted back.

Without so much as a flinch to signal warning, John landed a solid right hook on Lestrade's jaw, knocking the D.I. back two steps. "Do not touch me again," John growled, and Lestrade immediately released the hold he had on John's shirt.

"God John. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Lestrade put his hands up in front of him, admitting defeat. "I just, I saw you up there, and I panicked."

"Wasn't in any danger until you burst up here like an idiot. I wasn't going to jump, I was just trying to see... I don't know, to see what he saw before he jumped." John shrugged.

"You mean, I... oh God, I almost killed you?" Lestrade's knees went weak under him, and he fought to catch his breath.

"Okay, calm down Greg. Everyone's fine. I'm okay. You'll be okay if you start breathing," John put his arm around Lestrade's shoulders and directed him to sit down on the ledge. "In and out, slowly now. Here, take a drink," John handed Lestrade the thermos.

"Holy... what is that?" Greg choked as he swallowed.

"The Birthday gift you gave me. Smooth, yeah?" John laughed. He fished the cigarettes and lighter from his coat jacket pocket. "You look like you could use one of these."

"Doctor Watson, have you taken up smoking? For shame!" Lestrade's laugh was breathy and uncertain.

"They were Sherlock's. I guess I was feeling sentimental. Was going to light one, just to smell him one last time." John looked away. "It's stupid."

"No, no it's not. It's beautiful and oddly appropriate. Here," Lestrade pulled two cigarettes from the package and lit them at the same time. "Wish we had matches. My granddad always used matches, that's what I use to use too. Sherlock have a preference?" Lestrade handed John a cigarette, and turned the lighter over in his hand.

"Not really. He'd use whatever would light. The lighter, matches, the fire place, his bunson burner, the gas stove. A burning house one time," John huffed a laugh.

"Of course he did." Lestrade chuckled. He raised his cigarette, and John followed suit. "Sherlock, you idiot, wherever you are, this is for you."

Lestrade puffed away in silence as he watched John struggle with the dilemma of the cigarette in his hand. The doctor slowly raised it to his lips, drew in a halting breath, proceeded to nearly choke to death, and snuffed the cigarette right out.

"Lightweight," Lestrade laughed. "So, if you weren't going to jump, why come up here?"

John sighed. "Answers. I needed answers."

"Yeah? You find anything?"

"I did, actually."

Lestrade turned to John. "Really? Do tell."

"Well, I got to see for myself where Moriarty bled out. Kind of unnerving that it hasn't been cleaned up, isn't it?"

"Hmm," Lestrade hummed in agreement as he lit up another cigarette.

"And I found Sherlock's mobile," John hesitated. "Shouldn't have told you. You're going to make me turn it in, aren't you?" John started to panic.

"God no. I'm on disciplinary leave right now. I'm not going to do them any favors. You get the information you need off that phone before you even think about turning it in." Lestrade waved his hand dismissively.

John released the breath he was holding, and smiled. "Thanks Greg. Thank you." He trailed off as a sinister thought entered his mind.

"Greg?"

"Yeah, John?"

"If you're off duty, why are _you_ up here? You had no way of knowing I'd be up here. You weren't..." John didn't finish his thought, he couldn't.

Greg stretched his legs out in front of him, snuffed out his cigarette, and sighed. "Yeah, yeah I was."

"God. Who's the stupid, selfish, idiot now, you hypocrite?" John asked, not unkindly. "What happened?"

Lestrade stood. "What hasn't happened, John?" His voice cracked and he scrubbed his hand over his face. "Sherlock was right, you know. My wife was having an affair. I should have left, but I stayed, tried to work it out. But when all this mess with Sherlock and Moriarty started, she used my involvement in the case as her reason to file for divorce. I was still staying at the house, in the guest room, until I could find a place. Then I got the disciplinary action filed on Friday afternoon, and I can still lose my job, which set her off. This morning she told me that if I decided to go to the funeral, I should just plan on never coming back. No way was I not going. When I got home after there was a suitcase and a cardboard box with my stuff waiting for me on the front stoop."

Greg ran his hand over his hair, and hung his head. He made no effort to keep his tears at bay. "As if all of that isn't bad enough... My wife is in love with another man, and my career is _over_ , Sherlock jumped, and it's my fault. Why didn't I just listen to you? Why did I have to go along with Donovan? God. I've known Sherlock for years. Seen him at his very worst. There is one thing he would never lie about, never jeopardize. He would never risk his work. He might lie, cheat, and do any other number of illegal things to prove his point, but he would never, ever fabricate a case just so he could solve it and take the credit. God. I'm so stupid. I know he didn't take those kids and poison them. He didn't make those bombs. But he died thinking I believed he had."

Convulsed with sobs, Greg dropped to his knees in front of John. "I'm sorry, John. I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I know I don't deserve it, but, God, if you could find it in you to forgive me then I could... I... I could die knowing at least one person knew the truth. And I..."

"Shut up!" John barked, his eyes ablaze with anger. Lestrade inhaled sharply and shut up. "God, Greg. I am so angry at you. I mean, so, _so pissed_ right now. Yeah, I'm mad you didn't stand up for Sherlock, but you had to do _your job_. No one, not even Sherlock, could fault you for that. Right now, I'll forgive that. But if you jump off this building, or try any other cowardly stunt, I will NEVER forgive you. Not _ever_. Do you understand me? I will hate you more than I have ever hated anyone or anything."

John was seething. He clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, and had begun to rock front to back. His breathing was quick and shallow. Greg had been around John long enough to recognize the beginning of a panic attack. "John, you have to calm down. You're going..."

"No! You don't tell me what to do. You don't get to tell me to calm down. Greg, you just told me you were going to jump off this building. How am I supposed to react to that? Were you going to do it in front of me too? Force me to watch another friend die? Remind me again how inadequate I am? You'll excuse me if I can't calm down right now." John's voice had grown increasingly frantic.

"I swear to God, Greg, if you jump off this building, I'll jump too. Do you hear me? Blow your own brains out? I'm an excellent shot, I never miss my target. Pills? I've got a prescription pad. I mean it. Anything you can possibly think to try, know with certainty, I will be exactly one step behind you. So what'll it be, Greg? How are we going to die today?" John knew he was being cruel, that his words bit hard with venom, but he couldn't find it within himself to care one ounce.

Lestrade stared back at him in shock, horror etched on his face. He opened his mouth once to speak, but shut it quickly.

"Sherlock was my best friend, Greg. He jumped in front of me, and there wasn't anything I could do to stop it, to save him. After him, there's just you. Do you hear me?" Tears tracked down John's face unchecked.

Lestrade wrapped his arms around his middle and doubled over. "I think I'm going to be sick. Oh God. John. John I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He barely managed a whisper.

"This is going to be the hardest thing either of us has ever done. We need each other, yeah? We've both lost people before, in the most horrible ways imaginable. We made it through that, we can make it through this. But it has to be together. Okay? Can you hold on? For me? And I'll promise you the same." John's tone was even, and measured. Not calm, nor even necessarily kind, but precise. He held out his hand to Greg.

The D.I. nodded slightly and grasped John's hand. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I can do that. But I have to warn you, I can be insufferable when I'm miserable." He stood slowly, the shift in posture causing his head to go a little dizzy. He closed his eyes and took a few controlled breaths.

While Greg calmed himself, John pulled the notepad and pen from his jacket pocket, and started writing furiously.

"What's all that?" Greg asked.

"You're going to help me clear Sherlock's name... and possibly prove he's still alive..."

"John, wait. What are you on about? You saw his body. There was a funeral?" Lestrade was incredulous.

"I have evidence. We'll get to that later," John waved the topic off with his hand, and returned to what he had written. "You're going to help me clear Sherlock's name, and I'm going to help you get reinstated. I've already asked Mycroft to help. I'm going to stand by you through this divorce, and you're going to stay on the couch at 221b until you can get settled someplace. No, don't argue. I can't handle being lonely. It'll kill me. This is purely selfish." The two men shared a look of understanding.

"No matter what happens, every year on the 4th of May we'll meet right back here. We'll light a cigarette in Sherlock's memory, and share some bad scotch," John looked to Greg for his approval.

"Cheers," Lestrade nodded his assent.

"And," John hesitated. "And we both agree... if the other does something rash, like offs himself, whoever is left will follow suit." John shrugged, and looked up with sadness in his eyes.

"A suicide pact," Greg stated flatly. He paused and thought a moment. "Hmm. It'll certainly keep us accountable, won't it? Where do I sign?"

John sighed in relief. "Here. And I'll sign here. Too bad we can't have a suicide pact drawn up into legal documents."

"When you were a lad, ever spit shake with your mates? The most legally binding contract you could enter into, you know," Lestrade offered.

John huffed a laugh. "Oh God, yes. That's perfect." The two men stood facing one another, after an awkward pause, each spit into their right hands and they shook on their agreement, binding themselves to one another. The handshake gave way to a hug that was really less sentiment, and more two lost souls clinging to each other for dear life. "Brothers in arms," John whispered. Overcome, Greg could only nod in agreement.

"Let's get off this bloody roof," John broke from the hug first, and collected his belonging from the ledge. "I need to eat something. And drink so very much."

"Agreed," Lestrade smiled weakly. He paused by the blood stain Moriarty left behind. "Wherever you are, I hope you're suffering," he hissed, and spit on the stain. He spit once again, for good measure.

"Rot in hell," John growled, then followed Greg's lead and spit on the stain twice. He turned sharply and marched to the door, Greg following closely at his heels as they vanished from the frame.

* * *

 **PRESENT**

Silence hung heavy between the flat mates as minutes ticked by. John cleared his throat and massaged his aching right shoulder with his aching left hand. God, this was going to be a long recovery.

Sherlock watched his every move.

"Do you care to explain that little agreement between you and Lestrade?" Sherlock was working very hard to hide any hint of emotion.

"What more is there to explain? We agreed to help each other, which we did. And we kept each other from doing something stupid. Good thing, that. Since you came back." John offered a small smile.

"Is this a joke to you?" Sherlock exploded. "You... you signed a contract to kill yourself. With Lestrade. A suicide pact, John. Suicide. You promised another human being to kill yourself. I... I don't know how to take that. I don't know if I can get past that!"

"YOU get past that?" John couldn't mask his shock. "You jumped off a bloody building and made me watch. That alone nearly killed me. I cannot begin to number the days I woke up after that day, and the only thought I had was that I probably ought to end it all and stop being a burden to everyone around me. The only thing that kept me from that most days was knowing I couldn't ask Greg to do the same. That contract saved my life, Sherlock. It is the only reason I am alive, sitting here right now."

Sherlock gasped sharply. His quick eyes searched every part of John's face. "Do you still... Do you ever... Since I've been back, have you..."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah, twice."

As a medical professional John knew it was physically impossible for words to literally tear a man's heart out. As a human being who had borne more than his share of suffering, John recognized the second his words destroyed his best friend.

Sherlock's hands flew to his throat, and he clawed and struggled to undo the upper most buttons, as if the shirt was strangling him. The bruise around his neck from the night before stood out in stark contrast against the white shirt.

"Sherlock..."

"No, I can't... I can't breathe... I... Oh God." Sherlock jumped from the couch and dashed to the toilet to vomit. John could hear his friend weeping, and he slowly worked his way off the couch and limped glacially along to the bathroom.

"My fault. It's my fault." Sherlock repeated as he lay curled around the toilet.

John positioned himself to lean against the door frame in such a way as to relieve the pressure from his right leg. "What you have to understand, Sherlock, is that after you jumped my PTSD issues were still there, only I had to deal with triggers and memories in relation to you as well as the war. I had nightmares about you, or worse, nightmares about you in Afghanistan. Some mornings I would wake up consumed with grief. But the really bad days, the days I needed Greg to remind me why I had to stay alive, were the days I would wake up and forget that you were gone. The realization would creep up on me, and I would be ready to give up completely. Those days never went away. As a matter of fact, the day before you came back, Greg had to come and sit with me for three hours."

With a sorrowful sigh, John pressed on. "After you came back, the nightmares eased up drastically. But I still have them. And it's always you. London or Afghanistan, it's always you I can't save. And those two times I mentioned? Happened that first month you were back. I woke up both mornings, and had forgotten that you were back. I was disoriented and terrified. You thought I left for work, but Greg picked me up both days, and he helped me through it. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to burden you with it. I couldn't bear the thought of this..." John motioned to indicate Sherlock in his prone and weeping state.

"I started setting an alert on my mobile, so the first thing I see every morning is a reminder that you're alive, and that you're here. And it works. Even if I wake up initially panicked, it assures me that you aren't going anywhere, you haven't left me alone, and I'm coping. Those panic days are fewer and farther between."

Sherlock hiccuped as he tried to swallow back a sob. "But you're only having to cope because of me. I am the cause of your distress. And there isn't anything I can do to fix it."

John sighed again. "Seems to me I've done a pretty spectacular job of causing you some serious distress as well. How about we call it a draw?"

Reaching for the roll of toilet tissue, Sherlock sat up and blew his nose. He sat for a moment, staring at John intently. "I need you to promise me," his voice was shaky, but he pressed on, "the minute you realize you're experiencing any distress at all, you'll let me know. No matter where we are, or what is happening. Will you do this for me?" John nodded. "Good. Very good." Sherlock looked John over once more. "You're in considerable pain. Why are you standing there? God, John, it's as if you only know how to make poor decisions. I'm going to help you back to the couch, we'll order dinner... Chinese, I think. Okay? And we'll pick up from there."

Sherlock extracted himself from his awkward position alongside the toilet, washed his hands and splashed his face, and offered John his arm for support.

"We're going to be okay, Sherlock. You and I, together. We're going to be fine." John's voice was barely more than a whisper.


	2. 4 May, 2013

**PRESENT: Monday, 4 May, 2015**  
 **221b Baker Street**

"John."

A plaintive, hushed estimation of the battered, bone-weary man drowsing on the sitting room sofa. Sherlock hovered in the doorway to the flat, a plastic bag laden with Chinese food in one hand, observing his friend. Concussed, bruised, bloodied, fractured, dislocated, and sprained, the doctor sagged back into the cushions, eyes closed, breathing evenly.

Was it possible for someone to look thoroughly miserable, yet altogether peaceful, at the same time? Leave it to John Watson.

Thinking his flat mate to be asleep, Sherlock placed their dinner on the coffee table, adjusted the cushion under John's leg, and retrieved a blanket from the back of the arm chair. "You are the single most complex human being I have ever encountered, John. How do you bear to put up with someone as insufferable as myself?" Sherlock mused absently as he gently draped the blanket over the other man.

"I manage alright," John mumbled, eyes still closed, but unable conceal the slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

With a gasp Sherlock froze, startled, mid-tuck in.

"What're you doing?" It was more of a yawn than an actual question. John awkwardly tried to rub the sleep from his eyes, but the wrist brace severely hindered his ease of movement and he winced in pain when he brushed against a bruise on his face.

"Ah... yes..." Sherlock fumbled. "Thought you were asleep. Wanted to make sure you were comfortable. Lean up." When John complied, Sherlock adjusted the cushion behind the doctor's back.

"Hmph. Supposed to be my job," John pouted. "I hate this."

"Indeed. I am as disinclined to provide care as you are to receive it. Yet, here is where we find ourselves." Sherlock retreated to the kitchen and could be heard opening and closing cupboards, and generally making more noise than was entirely necessary for one person to make in such a small space.

"Um, Sherlock?" John called, not really expecting an answer, which is exactly what he got.

Sherlock emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later with a loaded serving tray. Placing the tray gingerly on the table between John's cushion and the bag of food, he arranged a cup of tea and a glass of water to be within John's reach. Without looking up from what he was doing, Sherlock stuck his hand out to John. "Peas."

"Peas?" John laughed.

With a sigh, Sherlock pointed at John's shoulder, "Yes, hand me the bag of peas serving as an ice pack on your shoulder."

"Oh! Right."

Taking the slightly mushy bundle from John, Sherlock wrapped the towel around a fresh bag of frozen lima beans and turned up his nose. "We really ought to invest in several of those gel ice packs."

"Every time I buy more, you cut them open for experimentation. Frozen vegetables work just as well." John eased the lima beans under his sling, trying valiantly, and failing, to not flinch when the cold came in contact with his aching shoulder.

"But, lima beans and peas?" Sherlock shuddered with disgust as he placed freshly wrapped cold packs on John's knee and ankle.

"Guaranteed Sherlock proof. We've managed to keep those particular ice packs for four months now. That's a new record," John smiled victoriously at his flat mate.

"Seems congratulations are in order. Well done, doctor." With a laugh Sherlock returned the thawing cold packs to the freezer before taking his place on the other end of the couch. He pulled the bag of food to him and glanced at John. "Hungry?"

It was John's turn to pull a disdainful face. "Not really." Sherlock shot him a sharp look. "I know, I know. I force you to eat, especially when you're unwell. I really don't think my gut, in its current pulverized state, can handle anything too heavy right now."

"Egg drop soup it is then," Sherlock pulled the clear plastic container from the bag. John sighed in resignation and reached for a spoon from the tray. They realized at the same moment that John didn't have another free hand with which to hold the soup. For a moment they just stared at one another; the brains of one genius consulting detective and one military officer/doctor scrambling to solve this most troublesome of puzzles.

"I wonder if Mrs. Hudson has one of those tall tray tables?" John shrugged his good-though-not-really left shoulder.

At the same moment, Sherlock murmured, "I don't have to feed you too, do I?"

" _NO_ ," John shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not. No. _God_ no. Not ever." He tossed the spoon back to the tray. "Just pull the lid off for me, yeah? Here," John took the open container from Sherlock, and raised it slightly as if giving a toast. "Cheers." With slurp he took a sip of the broth straight from the container and nodded. "Mhmm."

"How very dignified doctor," Sherlock shook his head. He pulled a pair of chopsticks from their paper sheath, and fished a carton of lo mein from the bag. "We've got lo mein and fried rice, if you decide you'd like to try. How's the soup?" He pointed to John with the chopsticks, unintentionally flipping a noodle onto the laptop resting between them.

"Oh God, it's the noodle incident all over again," John chuckled. Sherlock grinned that genuine, unassuming grin. Clearing his throat, John suddenly turned serious. "You... Uhm... You wanna watch another?" He pointed to the laptop.

"Only if you're certain. It's getting late. You're exhausted. There really is no hurry." Sherlock offered John a variety of excuses to choose from, though there was an eagerness in his eyes that immediately gave him away.

"It's fine. It'll be fine," John's voice grew quiet. "This one is..." He sighed, "please don't panic. Please. And don't run away. Just, _please_ , stay here with me." John's eyes searched Sherlock's face, imploring him silently. The consulting detective cautiously removed the soup from John's hand, and wrapped his own fingers around those of his blogger, applying just the right amount of pressure to make his presence known, but not enough to cause undue pain to the injured hand. No awkward pretext or underlying... anything... implied. Yet an infinite amount of reassuring devotion was transferred in that most simple of gestures.

John took a deep breath, smiled weakly, and nodded to Sherlock to click on the next video link.

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **04/05/13**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

The sun was just beginning to rise, the first vestiges of daylight barely staining the low hanging clouds vivid pinks and fierce oranges.

John Watson had been awake for hours. Felt like days. Not that it really mattered anymore.

He burst through the rooftop door and stumbled a few steps before barely righting himself. Disoriented, he looked around the rooftop and squinted into the sun. _Bad idea_. His head was killing him. If he didn't know better he would have thought he was hung-over.

No. He couldn't be hung-over.

He was _entirely_ too drunk for that.

A few halting steps and he found himself staring down at the spot where… uhm… Jim? Yeah, _Jim._ James. Moriarty. The spot where Moriarty died.

At least he thought it was the spot. The blood wasn't visible any more. A year's worth of London's dank climate had erased his presence forever.

"You." John shook his finger, as if scolding a child, at the spot and shook his head with a contemptuous laugh. "You. Even dead, you're cleverer than everyone, aren't you? You knew all along. The whole bloody time. Well, good on you. You won." He considered spitting on the spot. It's what they did last time, he and Greg. But last time was different. Last time he had hope. Instead he pulled the largish bottle, though only half full, of scotch from his coat. "Cheers." He downed a large gulp and turned to face the ledge.

* * *

 **PRESENT**

John blanched.

He pried his left hand free from Sherlock's, wrapped his good arm rigidly around his middle, and gasped for air as he doubled over, eyes squeezed tight.

" _oh god_ " His voice was smaller, more stripped raw, than Sherlock had ever heard it, including _that_ day exactly three years ago.

Sherlock was aghast, too afraid to say or do anything. He found that while he was nauseated by what he had just seen, he was well and truly terrified by how it had affected John. This was clearly a traumatic reaction triggered by the stress of the memories. It was a different response from his military stressors, but damaging nonetheless.

"John," Sherlock spoke as softly, and annunciated as clearly, as possible. "John? It's me. This is Sherlock. John, I need to know you're listening to me. Can you nod for me?" A slight tip of the other man's head. "Good. Very good. John, I'm going to place my hand on the middle of your back, okay? Gently. It's just me." He placed his hand softly on his friend's back. "Can you feel that John? It might be hard to feel through the bindings," Sherlock hadn't even considered that the doctors would have wrapped his chest to bind his cracked ribs. God, this was going to be difficult. "Can you feel my hand?"

"Yeah..." John mumbled. "Sorry, sorry," he repeated over and over.

"Don't apologize, John. Just take deep breaths. In, hold it, and out, hold it. And again. Hold. Out. Hold. Good. Good John. Keep going." Sherlock slowly rubbed his hand up the middle of John's back as he was inhaling, paused, and rubbed back down as he would exhale. He would maintain this motion as long as it took for John to regulate his breathing.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed there like that, John mumbling apologies and Sherlock helping him breathe, but eventually John unfolded himself. "Would you like some water?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

John nodded, his voice wavering. "Yeah. Yes please." Sherlock helped him steady the glass to take a sip. "Thanks, Sherlock. I thought I was ready, but obviously I wasn't."

"Think nothing of it, John. You are attempting to dredge up the past, a task you find daunting under the best of circumstances, and with that effort came traumatizing memories and emotions. You have nothing to be ashamed of, nor to apologize for. It was I who asked to see the videos, therefore it is I who owe you an apology." He slid his hand from John's back, and once again took John's left hand in his own. "Why don't I clean everything up, and then..."

"No, I want to go on," John squeezed Sherlock's fingers, as if trying to reassure himself that his friend was still there.

"What? No, John. I must insist you rest now," Sherlock pleaded.

"If I wait until tomorrow, or even next week, it will just happen again. I've already gone off the deep end tonight, I may as well finish the job."

"John," it was impossible to mask the concern in his voice, so Sherlock tried to use it to his advantage. "Please, John. For me. Don't let's do anything. It's safer."

"Safer? Sherlock bloody Holmes wants to play it safe?" John's smile didn't make it to his eyes. "Push the button."

"If it's what you want, John. But I must express my deep displeasure at your choice."

"Noted."

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **04/05/13**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

"Cheers." He downed a large gulp and turned to face the ledge. Time to go pray at the Altar of Sherlock. Or so he had named "the spot," all of 20 seconds ago.

He stumbled to the ledge, and placed his hand reverently on the last place he had, with certainty, seen Sherlock Holmes alive. He stood there for what felt like ages. Not thinking. Not remembering. Not seeing. Not really even being.

He closed his eyes and dropped hard to his knees. He tried to remember how to pray. How to believe. If not in God, then in anything. He thought back to his old Gran. She had taken him to church when he was small. He never really understood what all the fuss was about, but he remembered the stories and songs being comforting and lulling him nearly to sleep. Gran always said praying brought her peace. He didn't know if he believed all that, but then, his lack of faith hadn't stopped him asking God to not let him die when he'd been shot.

He knelt there, hands clasped together as Gran had taught him when he was so young. But it didn't seem right to pray to the God his Gran had trusted. It had been too long. So, he talked to the only one he ever really wanted to talk to anyway.

"Sherlock, it's me. This is John..." God, he felt so stupid doing this. "I, uhm, I just wanted you to know, in case you didn't already, we got your name cleared. Greg and me did. I found your clues, and it was enough. It was all there. And we had to go to court, and testify there. But we did it. And then everyone was sorry. So sorry. It's probably wrong of me, but it felt so good to hear Sally Donovan apologize. She bloody cried, can you believe it? God, and Anderson went right off his nut at a crime scene, trying to deduce like you, and the idiot just snapped, and they canned him right there. But none of it matters really, because you're not here."

John didn't even attempt to hide the sobs. "Sherlock," he wept, "Sherlock, please. It's been a year. Just stop this. _Please._ I found your clues Sherlock. I believed. I told everyone Sherlock. I said it so many time. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. And they would look at me like I was crazy, or shake their heads sadly. But it was true. I believed in you, that you were bloody brilliant, and the best friend I ever had. I believed in you harder than I have ever believed in anything or anyone. But it wasn't enough, was it? Me believing. "

Knees aching, John turned to sit down flat on the roof, leaning back against the short wall. "But I can't any more Sherlock. It hurts too bad. It's been a year. A whole year. I guess if you were ever going to come back, you would've by now. I always knew you'd leave me eventually. No one ever stays. I just didn't know that when you left, you'd take everything with you. I've got nothing. I'm fresh out of hope, Sherlock. I used it all up those first couple of months. Poured every last ounce into clearing your name, and reminding myself it was all just a trick, a magic trick. Because that's what you said, Sherlock. You did. And I took that as a promise, but I was wrong. I believed in you, and I was wrong. So, that's it for me then. Nothing left to believe in. There was a I time when I thought the entire rest of my life would be spent believing in you Sherlock, but I guess I'm just too weak. A failure. Because a year was all I had in me."

Slowly he pulled himself up to sit on the ledge. He turned to dangle his feet over the edge and leaned slightly over to watch the people moving below. Sitting up a little straighter, he took another swallow of the scotch, a desperate man's communion he supposed, secured the cap, and set it off to the side for Greg. He fished the pack of cigarettes and small matchbox from his pocket. John tore the cellophane away from the pack and let it float away on the breeze. He took out a single cigarette and a single match, and set the rest next to the scotch. Striking the match against the building, he watched the flame burn down until the match was little more than a nub, and then quickly lit the cigarette, drawing on it only long enough to get it lit properly. He set the lit cigarette reverently off to the other side of him, as if he were lighting one of the prayer candles at Gran's church all those years ago.

John dug in his pockets once more, until he found the neatly folded piece of paper.

His apology to Greg.

He tucked it securely under the bottle of scotch.

The poor man had done everything he could to help John, but as the weeks stretched into months, John could see the toll he was taking on his friend. God. Everyone could see it. And Greg deserved more. He had come to terms with Sherlock never coming back months ago, and had been ready to go on with his life. But John only kept dragging him back down.

And John couldn't do it anymore. He was killing Greg, and he just couldn't watch his friend willingly sacrifice himself over and over as he tried to pull John from this deepening pit.

He hadn't been enough to keep Sherlock from leaving. He clearly wasn't enough for Sherlock to come back to. And he wasn't worth the price that Greg was paying.

John remembered the promise they had made to each other, that if one ended it all, the other would too. So John made sure to absolve Greg of that responsibility in his note, certain it would come as a relief to the other man.

It had been year.

And he was done.

A year.

God.

Wasn't it truly astounding when one considered what could happen in only a year's time.

Or not happen.

Depending on the year in question.

Also upon the individual doing the considering.

God, it was all just too much to think about.

But not really enough.

And that bloody well didn't even make any sense.

Then the memories flooded in. But they weren't organized and tidy, because God knows that might have actually been helpful. No these memories were chaotic and jumbled, and just when it seemed there was a single coherent thought, something was always just kind of... off.

Always something.

Rivulets of blood carrying sun bleached desert sand, mingling with blood pooled on damp, dreary pavement.

Wrong.

The very first wounded soldier, from the very first tour. A fatigue clad figure. Lieutenant's insignia. Left leg blown to shreds below the knee. He'd lose the leg, but he'd live. Check the vitals. No pulse. Blue eyes suddenly lifeless. Pale, angular features, unexposed to the harshness of Afghani sun. Dark mop of unruly hair, matted with blood from the crushing head wound. He's my friend.

 _Wrong._

A standard patrol. The sun was glaringly white and blinding. The sky a brilliant cerulean, so clear it was possible to see for miles. God. _Miles._ But it was so hot. Like the very gates of hell, they joked. Speaking of which... Screaming. A suicide bomber in the marketplace. No detonation, but the device was present. They scrambled, searching madly. A breeze meandered through, and the faint scent of chlorine lingered. He looked to his left. Then his right. They'd backed away from him, terror etched on their faces. Instead of radio chatter he heard the mocking sing-song voice of a mad man through an ear piece. There was a countdown. His hands flew to his chest to ensure his body armor was secure, and he nearly choked on the overwhelming smell of chlorine, because instead of Kevlar he was strapped into a bomb. And everyone was going to die that day.

 _WRONG._

God.

 _GOD._

What was that? Was that insanity? Yes. He was losing his mind. Not losing. Lost. Had lost.

Nothing left now.

Had there ever really been anything there to begin with?

It had been a year. A bloody _year_. And there was still nothing.

Alone suited him just fine.

He looked over the edge one more time. Not everything had changed. He still didn't have the stomach to jump. He was aware of the weight of the Sig tucked at the small of his back, and gingerly he pulled it out and held it, as in offering, before him. He examined it closely, though he knew every detail intimately. After everything, this one inanimate object had served as a totem, an anchor to reality. He had spent hours dismantling and reassembling it. He could already do that in his sleep, faster than anyone in his unit, it had been drilled into him. There was something comforting in the repetitive motion. Knowing that this one thing had never failed him. Not once. And if he needed it, it would not fail him one last time.

It was time to put the Sig to the final test.

He scooted forward so his knees jutted out over the ledge, and leaned slightly forward so that gravity could do what he was too weak to do himself once his body went limp. This way his bloody, cowardly remains wouldn't taint the spot.

John checked the clip. Just to make sure.

Closing his eyes he leaned forward, just a tiny bit more. He had long ago decided, before he had even met Sherlock, that if it came right down to it, he was going to eat the bullet. He'd seen too many failed attempts with the gun pointed inward toward the heart. It was a romantic notion, but always proved too awkward to handle the weapon properly. The side of the head also left too much room for error. The recoil alone could cause the hand to shift, and leave the poor soul damaged and trapped in their own useless body. That seemed a fate worse than death to John.

He pressed the gun to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't help his tongue instinctively attempting to taste the cold metal. He swallowed hard and inhaled deeply.

And then Greg Lestrade, that bloody clueless idiot, swung the rooftop door open.

It couldn't be 7:30 already.

John whispered a vulgar tirade around the gun in his mouth. He hadn't wanted Greg to be the one to find him, much less witness this. But, what else could he do?

Steeling his nerves, John inhaled deeply once more. And then he hesitated.

God.

Why did he hesitate?

Greg strolled smoothly up next to John. The cigarettes immediately drew his attention, and he sat on the ledge, facing the opposite direction as John, paying only a little attention to the fact that John had not shifted his posture since he made his approach. "Been here long, mate? From the looks of that scotch bottle, seems like it. It's only now 7:30 though, so if you were up here catching a chill, that's on you."

Perhaps the D.I. noticed more than he let on. His voice was a touch too chipper, and his movements had become very slow and deliberate.

John watched Greg from the corner of his eye, waiting for him to strike his match, hoping that would distract the detective long enough for him to click the safety off. A moment later, and John had his opportunity.

The metallic click was unmistakable. Greg had heard it a thousand times.

It was the stuff of nightmares.

John Watson dreamed of war. Greg Lestrade dreamed of cold gun barrels being pressed into his back and the safety being taken off.

The soldier sat stone still, acutely aware that he had been found out. He didn't look at Greg. He maintained his coiled stance, daring the detective to move.

The detective sat frozen as well, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He didn't hide the fact that he was staring at John.

"So, that's it then? We're doing this today? I usually leave this at home, but for some reason, I thought I might need it this morning," Greg pulled a gun from his jacket pocket. "Illegal to have, you know. It's a Sig, just like yours. Can't tell you where I got it, but I managed to get my hands on one about a month after we signed that suicide pact. Figured if we were going all in, I better do it right."

"God, it's beautiful, yeah? Just look at it." Greg inspected his gun, just as John had, checked the clip, and flicked the safety off. "I have no idea what you're waiting for. I've been ready to do this for a year. Remember, John? Remember that day you talked me down? If it's all the same to you, though, I'll not be facing down when I go. Heights make me a bit squeamish." He scooted back a little farther on the ledge in order to give gravity the advantage. From his position he could see John's face. The doctor looked completely decimated. Greg sighed. "Well, off you go then. This was your plan; I'll let you take the lead."

Placing the barrel of his own gun in his mouth, Greg closed his eyes and waited. He mumbled something nearly unintelligible around the gun in his mouth.

"Wh... What?" John whispered. He had pulled the gun from his mouth, but still held it hovering near his lips.

Following John's lead, Greg pulled the gun from his mouth, but left it poised near his chin. He moved forward now, away from the ledge and sized up the distance between them; John was only an easy arm's length away.

"Just, something I had memorized for this occasion. Learned it back in school for a class play, thought it was appropriate:

 _Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,_  
 _Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,_  
 _Thus, I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,_  
 _And, in despite, I'll cram thee with more food!_

"Can you believe I remembered that? From the end of Romeo and Juliette. He thinks she's dead, so he's going to follow her in. I played Romeo. Me. _Romeo_ " With a shrug and a disdainful laugh, Greg stuck the gun back in his mouth.

John blinked in surprise. He lowered his gun just a fraction more. "God, Greg. What the actual..." In a flash, the supply of oxygen to John's lungs was cut off and in his disoriented state it felt as if he were tumbling backwards, but that couldn't be right could it?

That blink. It was all the indication Greg had needed.

Greg Lestrade was a very good detective. He was an even better friend.

107.

The number of ways Greg had come up with to save John Watson's life. Over the past year he had employed 36. Three of the tactics used so far had involved physical harm (one resulted in John needing stitches, but Greg had no regrets). A dozen or so were blatantly obvious misdirections. One long con. On twenty different occasions Greg's plans had been so devious John didn't even know he had been saved until he woke from fitful sleep the next morning.

Shakespeare was number 82 on the official list, and had been developed for just this event. The plan was simple. Since the situation was always going to come down to John trying to off himself, Greg would make his intentions clear. Either they both die, or no one does. If that didn't convince John to back down, then the D.I. would pull out his secret weapon: Shakespeare. He had armed himself with a variety of sonnets, soliloquies and monologues, varying in length and subject matter.

His favorite had always been the King's St. Crispin's Day speech from Henry V. He suspected John, as a soldier, would appreciate it too. Greg decided to save that one for another day, as double suicide was on the program for today. Romeo and Juliette seemed fitting.

Depending on how John responded to the poetic interlude, Greg would decide his next course of action. If the performance garnered no reaction, Greg would know his friend was too far gone. Were that the case, death would be a welcome release for them both. But, if John so much as blinked in reaction, Greg was prepared to diffuse the situation by any means necessary, and with extreme force if needed.

 _He blinked._

Sometimes Greg was a little slow on the uptake. That was not the case when it came to saving John Watson. When the matter concerned John, Greg was as calculating and precise as anyone could be.

John blinked.

Greg dropped his cigarette.

John lowered his Sig just a fraction.

Greg clicked the safety on his own Sig, and lowered it as well.

John opened his mouth to speak.

Greg covered the distance of the easy arm length between them, using his left hand to grasp John's throat with enough force to stun him and push him up and back onto the roof, away from the ledge.

John's face registered only shock as he landed hard, flat on his back, momentarily stunned and breathless.

Greg wrenched John's Sig from his hands, and in one quick motion clicked on the safety then removed the clip. He removed the clip from his own gun as well.

John lay still, not breathing, a host of emotions playing across his face.

Greg shoved the clips into his jacket pocket and tossed the guns off to the side. "God. Breathe already, would you mate?"

John gasped for air. Eyes dark with rage searched Greg's face. "You..." he rasped.

Greg retrieved the scotch, shoving John's note deep into his pocket, the cigarettes and the matches. With a groan he sat down on the roof next to John's feet. "Don't talk, just breathe. You know the drill. In and out. In and out. And again. Good, John." He took a drink of the scotch, and lit a cigarette.

John growled, but matched his respirations to Greg's spoken encouragement. He balled his hands into fists and pressed them against his eyes.

Greg smoked his cigarette in a silent vigil at John's side. He waited patiently. He wanted to yell at John for being an idiot. Or cry and wail because John had almost died. _He_ had almost died. And there were so many things that needed to be said. But he didn't say any of them, because John wouldn't want to talk right then. John hadn't said as much, but they'd been in this situation too many times before, and Greg just knew. This time was different though. This time, _this time_ John had something to say. Greg could see it, whatever it was, hovering, just below the surface. He just needed more time. So Greg waited, smoking patiently. His free left hand found its way to rest gently on his friend's denim clad ankle as a point of contact, a reminder that neither one was alone.

A tear managed to escape from behind the fists pressing into John's eyes. Then another, and a third. Suddenly there was a torrent, and it was all just too much. John sobbed one word, "Sherlock." He shuddered, gasped once more for air, and lay there weeping unashamedly.

At the sound of John's despair Greg released a breath he felt that he'd been holding for an entire year. Finally. He hadn't spent every 24 hours of every one of the past 365 days with John, but he had been with him enough to know that John had never truly mourned Sherlock. Whether Sherlock was actually dead, or not, as John had fought so hard to believe, two undeniable truths remained: Sherlock Holmes was gone, and John Watson had spent a full year in denial.

"John?" Greg scooted forward and held his hand out. John opened his eyes enough to see the familiar hand, and with a few heaved breaths, he reached forward and use Greg's strong arm to pull himself up. He drew his knees toward his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs, and hung his head.

Still wracked with sobs, and avoiding eye contact, John asked the question he had been terrified to know the answer to. "He's not coming back, is he?" His voice cracked, and the tears started falling heavy once more. John finally worked up the nerve to look into Greg's eyes.

Greg had to look away from John's gaze. He'd seen those eyes before. Too many times. They were the glassy, unseeing, eyes of a dead man who had been caught off guard when confronted with his own mortality. Hundreds of crime scenes, and the victims whose eyes remained open were always the most unnerving. How much worse now that he had seen those lifeless eyes in the face of his friend? He cleared his throat.

"I just... John I wanted to believe like you, I did, but I... I just don't think..."

"Me neither. Not anymore." John's chest heaved as he fought another wave of sobs.

"Don't do that. Don't you dare. It's been a year, John, and you haven't mourned properly. If you need to sit up here and cry, then you cry. Curse and scream. I don't care. I might even join in. But please, for the love of God, don't close in on yourself."

"Greg, I'm sorry," John whispered.

"John, don't," Greg warned.

"Please, Greg. Please, I... truly am sorry for today. Not for wanting to eat a bullet. I still... I'm sorry I tried to break our pact. I figured you'd had enough of me, and would be happy to be rid of me. I should have known you're a better man than I am. That you wouldn't let me get away with that. God. I have never been more terrified in my life than seeing you with that bloody gun in your mouth. And then I realized I was the one who put it there. I just... I'm going to try harder, Greg. For you. Sherlock was my best friend, but you... You've become like a brother to me." John shrugged, and buried his face in his hands.

Greg scrubbed his hand over his face. "Brothers," he nodded with a sigh. "Just, let me help you, yeah?"

Looking up slowly, John nodded. "I... I'm probably going to try again. This I mean, with the gun, or whatever."

"I know," Greg sighed.

"I'm just so tired. And I can't shut my brain off, and I feel like I'm losing my mind. I don't even know what I'm trying to say." John rested his forehead on his knee.

"You're admitting you need help, and that it's going to get worse before it gets better. And that's fine. Because I'm going to help you. We're going to help each other, yeah?" Greg shifted to straighten out an aching knee.

"You... You're not leaving? Please..." John's voice wavered.

"No way. We're staying right here until we're both ready to go down there and face all that." Greg waved his hand in a broad sweep of the city. "Together."

"Together?" uncertainty flooded John's voice.

"Mhmm. Together. 'We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.'" Greg lit another cigarette.

"Henry V?" John asked, a slight smile sneaking to his lips.

Greg nodded, downed a gulp of the scotch and handed the bottle to John. "Cheers."

* * *

 **PRESENT**

The flat mates watched each other warily.

John closed the lap top.

"That's not the end? You... You were still up there." Sherlock spoke carefully.

"We finished the scotch, Greg finished the cigarettes, and I cried. A lot. We didn't talk at all after that. I guess you can watch it if you want, but I'm pretty well done." John sighed.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"You'll let me know when it's okay for me to ask you questions about all of this? I can see you are exhausted, but, I... I want to understand. I want to make it right for you. I... God, John, I'm so sorry. I..." Sherlock ran both hands through his hair frantically, and jumped up to start pacing the sitting room.

"Sherlock? How about we both get some rest tonight, and then tomorrow we'll talk? We can both sort our thoughts, and try to make some sense out of this for you, yeah? That one, that was the worst. There are only two more, and you've already seen one." John's voice was even and calm, but Sherlock could hear the twinge of something deeper there. Possibly exhaustion, but more likely sorrow.

"John, you shall have all the time you need. Thank you for sharing this with me. One day, soon, I think, I would like to tell you about my time away." Sherlock sat thoughtfully in his chair.

"I would really appreciate that, Sherlock. Thank you," John nodded with a small smile and a yawn. He glanced towards the stairs to his room. "I think I'm going to crash here on the sofa tonight."

"Nonsense." Sherlock stood quickly. "You always wake up stiff and aching when you sleep on the couch, even when you're well. I'll not tolerate you being more miserable than you already are. For the next several weeks, we will simply switch rooms. Mine will be easier for you to access, and is nearer the toilet."

"And my room has all my stuff I've never let you dig through. Hmm. Bloody brilliant, that. Works out perfectly for the both of us." John attempted to sound put out, but his grin betrayed him.


	3. REPOSE

Sherlock Holmes treated sleep as he did most everything else: a means to an end. As long as he was bound to this human transport, he was obliged to provide the most essential necessities, albeit sparingly and without any semblance of frequency, in order to maintain its function.

The exact instance escaped him, but somewhere along the line he had started abusing sleep the same way he had once abused cocaine. He would find himself coming down off the high of a case, the adrenaline and stimulation ebbing away leaving exhaustion and boredom in their wake, resulting in a binge session lasting from a dozen hours to multiple days. Sherlock would emerge disoriented and foul tempered as the last vestiges of sleep worked slowly from his system. Days would pass then, and just as with his experiments, his violin, and his penchant for tormenting his flat mate, he would rely on sleep to while away the oppressively mundane hours in hopes of avoiding mental stagnation and atrophy.

Despite John's efforts to maintain this apparent routine for the sake of Sherlock's well-being (having never been an addict, John clearly was not able to spot the obvious behaviors, and Sherlock was not inclined to divulge), something more interesting, usually a case, would inevitably come up and disrupt the calm. It was only when Sherlock's mind was fully engaged, all cylinders firing at a break-neck pace, did he ever find himself above the draw of the cumbersome need for sleep. Very rarely a case would extend beyond his endurance and he would catch a quick kip, just enough to enhance the thought process and energize his flagging transport. Then the case would be wrapped, and the cycle would start once again.

It was very early morning, in the throes of fighting off the post-case sleep binge, because he and John (mostly John, he grudgingly admitted, but just this once) had successfully foiled a planned bank heist and brought to justice an elusive crime boss and his step-son second in command after all, that Sherlock made a discovery about his best friend that both broke his heart and provoked his ire. An astonishing feat, considering the emotional upheaval he had already experienced the evening before as John had begun sharing what he had endured during Sherlock's two and a half year absence.

Armed with John's laptop and the black leather binder containing John's complete medical and military history, Sherlock made his way stealthily into his bedroom, where he had insisted John take up residence for the duration of his convalescence. Setting the folder and laptop aside, Sherlock set about adjusting pillows and replacing ice packs, so that when (not if) John stirred awake he would at least have the guise of concerned, possibly even compassionate, friend to hide behind until he could ease into this most pressing of conversations.

Perhaps he should have waited until John woke on his own.

After all was said and done, curbing his own curiosity for once, while unpleasant for himself, would have actually been merciful.

Because, despite the fatigue resulting from both physical and emotional exertion, not to mention the sedative effect of the pain medication that had been prescribed for his injuries, John Watson was a practiced and professional light sleeper.

As a doctor, John understood the human physiology, and the body's need for sleep. Early in his medical training, and in his time in residency at the hospital, he learned quickly the importance of getting as much sleep as possible as often as possible. Long nights spent on call demanded his full mental and physical capacities, necessitating the mastering of sleeping on the fly, in any environment, under any circumstance, and emerging from said sleep quickly, with focus and determination. His diligence in comprehending the functionality of sleep proved to be invaluable, and lifesaving, during his time in the military. Even when he was wounded and in hospital, the doctor part of his psyche overruled the disgruntled soldier side with the admonition that sleep was vital for recovery.

It wasn't until he was thrust unwillingly back into society, and the conventions of "a solid eight hours," did his subconscious begin rebelling against the very idea of sleep for sleep's sake. That's when the nightmares started. And then he met Sherlock, and sleep once again became a luxury. Despite the fact that he could in no way hope to function on as little sleep as Sherlock did, he recognized that he did function more fully when his sleep cycle was more unpredictable, similar to those nights on call or at war. His maximum potential was reached with no more than five hours of sleep at a time (Sherlock would argue four hours forty-eight minutes). Any less than that, and he found he would inevitably flounder, usually during the climax of some mad chase or other, leaving either Sherlock or himself in harm's way. Unacceptable. On the other hand, any more than five hours (four hours forty-eight minutes), and the nightmares would have time to take hold.

This particular Tuesday morning, more than a few contributing factors set to work against the poor doctor.

John had reached the five hour twenty-three minute mark in his sleep cycle. Being the light sleeper, he heard Sherlock's approach before he was awake enough to realize what was happening. Caught in that fuzzy, drug induced, space between sleep and awake, John became aware that someone was hovering over him, paying close attention to his extremities. When he moved to stretch, he found himself not only in excruciating pain, but unable to move his right arm and leg, and though it seemed to be free, his left arm mobility was limited as well. The bindings around his chest were constricting and panic inducing. He couldn't escape.

It didn't make sense, though. He didn't remember being captured. There was something else happening here, but he couldn't get his bearings. In a desperate attempt to... what? Stun his captor? Unlikely. But, still... He tried kicking out with his unbound left leg. His body, wracked in pain, begged him to lie still, but he wouldn't go out without a fight. All too soon the hovering figure had wrestled his leg into submission with an exclamation of "Stay still for God's sake, you're going to hurt yourself!"

English or Pashto, he couldn't be certain.

"Captain John Watson, Royal Army Medical Corps." He identified himself in English. He felt his captor tense. He repeated his identification.

"John?"

 _Identify yourself clearly, give them reason to keep you alive._ "I'm a medical doctor. _A doctor_?" No response. Try Pashto. "DaakTar. DaakTar." His captor had released his leg, but was kneeling next to him on the bed ( _bed?_ ) and had inched his way nearer John's head. Not good, not good at all.

"John." The voice was stern.

" _DaakTar!_ DaakTar!" He was panicking now.

"English, John. You have to calm down."

English? "I'm a doctor. A medical doctor. I'm unarmed. I can help them. Please, let me help them." The tears came unbidden, but he couldn't find it in himself to be ashamed. He had to appeal to his captor's humanity. "Let me help them!"

"Who, John?"

"The boys, they're injured. Bleeding. They'll die. I can help them. Please, let me help them."

"Where John, where are the boys?"

"There, can't you see them? Right over there. That IED blew, and they were hit. They're innocents. I can help them. Please. _Please_ , let me help them! They..." He attempted to sit up, but a firm hand pressed into his left shoulder held him in place. Straining, he thought he caught sight of dark curls and too pale skin. "No. _NO_. Oh God. _Ohgodohgodohgod_. No. Sherlock! Sherlock, no! I'm here. Sherlock!"

John was screaming now.

"John, you have to calm down."

"No, I have to help him. He's my friend!" John was weeping, unable to catch his breath. "Please! Please, he's my friend. Let me save him and then you can kill me. You can do whatever you want to me, just let me save him. Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm here! Please, please! I'm trying, Sherlock, please!" Despite being bound, he made every effort to fight off his captor.

"Captain Watson!" the voice boomed, "stop fighting. You're injured, not captive."

John lay as still as his trembling body would allow him. "Sherlock," he wept.

The captor's voice faltered, "Captain Watson, do you know where you are?"

"I... I can't remember."

"You are home. You are not in Afghanistan; you are in London, England."

"London?" John whispered. "But..."

"You are at 221b Baker Street, your home for several years now, in London."

"221b... But, the boys?" The tears started once more. "Sherlock? Where is Sherlock?"

"John," there was sorrow in that voice. "John, I'm right here. I haven't gone anywhere."

"Sher..." The doctor's voice wavered. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, and then continued to breathe with purpose. He was aware of the hand that had not moved from his shoulder.

"Yes, very good John. Keep breathing."

Ever so slowly, as if a sudden movement would startle his friend away forever, John raised his aching left hand and gently swept his fingertips through Sherlock's hair. Rubbing the pad of his thumb over his fingertips, the doctor discovered the absence of blood. He gasped at the physical confirmation. "Sherlock."

"That's right, can you tell me who you are?"

" _Doctor_ John Watson. I live at 221b Baker Street, London. _You_ are Sherlock Holmes, and you were never actually dead, which I am still cross with you about." John shuddered as he continued his slow and measured breathing.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. "I deserved that. What can you tell me about your current condition?"

"I..." John squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled deeply enough that his cracked ribs punished him with shooting pain. "I am not currently being held captive?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

John hesitated. "Uhm, telling you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's dark in here, and I couldn't see you, but I know you just rolled your eyes. Your disdain is practically audible."

"Welcome back, John," Sherlock laughed sincerely that time. "Now stop stalling, what can you tell me of your condition?"

"Fine. Concussion. Black eyes. Split lip. Right clavicle broken. Right shoulder dislocated, _twice_. Broken index and middle fingers on right hand. Sprained left wrist. Six cracked ribs. Bruised spleen and liver. Sprained right knee and ankle. Indentation of a pool cue across my back. Nearly two hours past due for pain meds. Desperately in need of about a thousand hours of sleep and a cup of tea." John grinned. "Oh, and I am currently sleeping in your room because you felt guilty that you let Vincent Spaulding get away from you on Sunday night."

"Alright. Nobody likes a show off," Sherlock relaxed enough to sit back on his heels. He reached across John and clicked on the lamp. "Do you remember what the dream was about? I... it seemed so real to you, but you never mentioned having been taken captive."

John laughed, "Really? It's practically a monthly occurrence."

"In Afghanistan, John. Not here, _there_. I didn't think you had been a prisoner of war."

"I'm sorry, I knew what you meant," John paused. "I wasn't. But there was one encounter, and I think, maybe it's possible my brain used that situation as a point of reference when I thought I was tied up here. It was supposed to be a routine sweep through the village, but about an hour before we arrived some local kids had stumbled upon an IED. I don't have any idea what they thought they were doing, but they tried to get it out of the road, and it detonated. A few were killed instantly, several were injured by the flying shrapnel. Most of the families in the village wanted nothing to do with the insurgents and the fighting, but when those kids died, it broke something in those people. All those farmers and merchants, they all had guns and things, just for protection, but they stormed the houses they knew the insurgents were hiding in, and started this insane firefight. By the time we arrived, it looked like there had been a massacre. The civilians took out several very bad guys, but that little village sustained a lot of damage, and a lot of really good men died that day."

John stifled a sob and squeezed his eyes tight shut. "God Sherlock, it was horrific. Worst thing I've ever seen. These weren't soldiers, or militants. These were regular people, driven to the brink by hopelessness. But God, I was so proud of them. We all were. We stood there in the streets, crying like little girls, because these men, with no training, no body armor, nothing but their honor, stormed the enemy stronghold. And they were successful. Sure they sustained losses, and a few of the insurgents got away, but they took back their homes."

Sherlock sat perfectly still, content to let John continue his story. In five years, this was the most his friend had ever opened up about any of his experiences. He realized he had never removed his hand from John's shoulder, he gave him a gentle pat, hoping John would realize he was encouraging him to keep going. John gasped, clearly having forgotten about Sherlock's hand as well, but to the detective's surprise, John simply placed his left hand on top of Sherlock's and gently patted his hand in return.

"Once we were past the initial shock, the medics and I started assessing injuries, and set up a makeshift triage. Of those who rushed into the firefight, there weren't many survivors, but we were all determined to save as many as we could. I was knelt over a man, checking his vitals, and had called for a medic. Someone walked up behind me, and I just assumed..." John huffed a disgusted laugh, "Yeah, I _assumed_ it was my guy. _Such an idiot_. Suddenly I had a gun to my head, and was being dragged backwards and into a very unsafe looking building. It happened so fast, I couldn't get to my service weapon, and no one even noticed I was gone at first. The door was barricaded shut, and then the man with the gun let me loose. An old woman grabbed my hand. She dragged me into another room, and laying there on the floor were these two kids. From what I could gather, they were there when the IED went off. There wasn't anything I could do to save their boys, especially since my kit was still out in the street, but I started working them over anyway, just to put the family at ease."

Another shaky breath, and John tightened his fingers around Sherlock's. "I wanted to save them. God, I tried so hard. But one of them was already dead by the time I got to him, and the other wasn't far behind. I did everything I could. And then... then everything went to hell. God." John hesitated, and forced himself to breathe slowly. "The room we were in had an exterior window, and despite having thought to barricade the door, the family didn't think to cover the windows. By that point everyone noticed I was gone, and had fanned out. The guys who found me... Davies and Wright... Just two of the best guys you could ever hope to meet. Excellent soldiers. From their vantage point, all they could see was me knelt on the ground and a slightly hysterical guy who might-or-might-not-have-been an insurgent with a big gun. One shout from them to hit the deck, and they opened fire. Completely decimated the place. I was laying over top of these two dead kids, screaming for them to stop, but all they heard was me shouting, so they just kept firing until everyone in the house was dead."

"Everyone but you," Sherlock whispered.

"Yeah," John replied, his voice dull. "They basically had to drag me out of there kicking and screaming. I mean it literally, I was crying and screaming, and fighting every step. The guys could tell I wasn't injured, but I was so bloody hysterical, they dragged me to one of the trucks and had to restrain me. One of the medics sedated me, and I remember being more angry about that than I had ever been about anything else in my entire life."

"Always the difficult patient," Sherlock quipped softly, with no malice intended.

John laughed despite himself. "I guess you could say that. God. I hadn't thought about that for years." With a sniff, John resumed his measured breathing.

"You blame yourself for their deaths."

John exhaled sharply. "Yeah...yes I do."

"Despite being forced at gunpoint into an unsafe situation."

"I..."

"Indeed, John. You. You habitually do this. You torment yourself with guilt for situations that are completely beyond your control. You weren't even there when those boys triggered that explosive device! And isn't that what started the whole chain of events? Teenagers doing stupid things! Grown men with no fighting experience then made conscious decisions to enter into a gun fight with professional killers. And in an effort to ease the suffering they brought upon themselves, you were taken at gunpoint and forced into locked quarters. You had no guarantee that once that man realized those boys were dead that he wouldn't have killed you too. I would genuinely like to meet this Davies and Wright, and thank them myself for getting you out of there alive."

"You're right. I know you're right. And that, just... pisses me off. God. Can't even have a decent nightmare without you and your pompous self interfering and proving my subconscious wrong," John snipped, though the corners of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly.

"Your subconscious has a way of being rather dimwitted. If you're not going to do anything about it, someone has to," Sherlock countered with a grin.

"This is all your fault anyway, you know that right? I heard you come in here. Don't deny it, you were trying to wake me up."

"Ah..." Sherlock tried to pull his hand away from John's shoulder. John tightened his grip.

"You watched the end of the video, yeah? I told you, didn't I? Greg smoked, I cried, and we didn't talk anymore."

"You didn't tell me everything," Sherlock whispered, finally extracting his hand from John's.

"The phone call." John sighed.

"Yes. I want to know about the phone call."

"I guess you've already searched the folder, made a few connections?" John asked, sounding very weary.

"I have," Sherlock concurred.

John sighed once again. "Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'm going to take some pain medication and take a shower, because I feel God awful right now. Then you're going to help me put all these binding and braces and nonsense back on, make the tea, and bring out those scones Mrs. Hudson made. Then, and only then, will I discuss the phone call. We can watch the next videos then too. Satisfactory?"

"All except for the parts where I have to wait patiently and then do things," Sherlock crossed his arms in a mock pout, then winked rakishly.

"Get out of here, you idiot," John pulled a pillow from behind his head and swung it at Sherlock's head.

"Fine, fine, I'll go. But just know, if you weren't already gravely injured, you'd be sorry you swung that pillow. That's a battle for another day. Just you wait, _Captain_ Watson."

John threw the pillow at Sherlock's head with a laugh. "Out!"

"Right. But if you need anything, just shout. I'll be upstairs pilfering through your belongings," Sherlock shouted through the door.

"Just be mindful of the booby traps," John deadpanned. There was a brief pause, and John wasn't certain that Sherlock was still standing outside the door.

"Really?" Sherlock sounded positively giddy.

"I guess there's only one way to find out" John laughed as he heard his flat mate practically trip over himself as he rushed up the stairs to invade his privacy. A glance at the clock on the bedside table revealed it was only 5:52 AM. John grumbled. Only four to eight more weeks of recovery to go.


	4. 4 May, 2014

**PRESENT: Tuesday, 5 May, 2015**  
 **221b Baker Street**

"Stay. Still." A rumble of frustration.

"Easy for you to say. Son of a..." a gasp of genuine pain followed by a tapestry of vulgarities.

"Is that really necessary? Lift your arm a bit."

"I am. And yes. Ow! Okay you did that on purpose."

"Oh, for God's sake. Stop. Moving."

"Sherlock, would you - aaah, not so tight right there... bruised liver! - would you do me one favor?"

"Sorry! Sorry. There, done. Finally." Sherlock huffed, gave the chest bindings a quick once over, helped ease John carefully into his arm chair, and flopped himself haphazardly into his own chair. "Just one favor? You promise, no more after that?"

"Just the one," John laughed, but stopped abruptly when he unintentionally jarred his aching shoulder. "Ohh God. Yeah, just the one. Sherlock, would you please, _please_ put me out of my misery?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'm serious. Shoot me, poison me, I don't care. You pick. Just end it quickly, please." John was smiling, despite the distressing nature of his words.

"John," Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock," John countered with a chuckle. "Calm down, I'm just kidding. Though," the doctor sighed the most forlorn of sighs, "this is only just the first day of my recovery. The morning after. The first time I've had to tend my wounds, and I am physically unable to do so. I had to have you dress my cuts, wrap my bindings, and put the braces on. And you'll have to help me with the sling here in a moment. Optimistically, we've got at the least 28 more days of this. Could be more. It's not fair to ask that of you!"

"John..."

"God, this is humiliating," John exhaled in exasperation and gritted his teeth when he realized he couldn't fling himself backwards into his chair for a good pout without causing himself inordinate amounts of pain.

"Humiliating? I fail to see how your current predicament has any bearing on your rather selective, if somewhat dubious, puritanical modesty." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his boxer clad flat mate.

"Puritanical modesty? God, Sherlock!" John blushed and snatched his pajama bottoms from the arm of the chair. He had come into the sitting room dressed only in his boxers for the simple fact that it would make accessing his wounds that much easier. While it had been embarrassing for a moment, he had resigned himself to the fact that it was necessary, and that Sherlock, having no regard for John's privacy (or sanity, depending on the day) had actually barged into the loo with enough frequency to have seen him in far less. He tugged the pajamas on with the efficiency of one who was well practiced in completing such a task with the use of only one arm.

Opposite arm this time, but the movements were easy enough to transpose and replicate now that he was relying on his dominant hand, sprained though it was.

Sherlock noticed. Of course he did. And despite the detective's best efforts, John still perceived the pity in his friend's eyes.

"That," with a scoff, John pointed at Sherlock. "That's what I'm talking about. Me being humiliated has nothing to do with the number of clothes I'm wearing. I'm humiliated because you're looking at me with pity right now. I'm a bloody doctor, and I can't take care of myself, much less anyone else. Military trained, and I couldn't even defend myself. How I am I supposed to protect you? I'm the one who takes care of you, it's what I do, and now I have to ask you for help. I feel weak and vulnerable, and it's humiliating."

"What could you possibly have to be humiliated about?" Sherlock challenged. "In both the encounter with Jabez Wilson and then with Vincent Spaulding, you out maneuvered and out witted your aggressors, despite the disparities in size and sheer force. And while your actions were purely self-defense against Wilson, you faced Spaulding, _injured_ , in order to draw his harmful intentions from innocent bystanders. From a purely medical perspective, you were faced with two exorbitantly violent men, and were able to subdue them in such a manner that they incurred the least amount of physical damage as possible. A courtesy that was not extended in return, I might add."

Sherlock paused, and inspected his flat mate's response.

John remained characteristically unconvinced.

With a sigh, Sherlock proceeded. "As far as your military training, you demonstrated impressively quick decision making and reaction times. Not to mention you successfully vanquished your assailants with an eight ball and an ink pen, respectively."

"Well, it _was_ a really nice pen," John quipped, though there was no joy in his tone.

Time to appeal to the doctor's innate sentimental side.

"You saved Jabez Wilson's life when you broke his jaw. Were you aware of that?" Sherlock yawned, putting on a very convincing passive demeanor.

"How's that now?" John blinked in surprise.

"Duncan Ross confessed that once the bank job was done, Wilson would have served his purpose and been disposed of. By disabling him and having him taken into custody, you prevented his imminent death." Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. He watched expectantly as John processed the information.

He was not prepared for the response.

John Watson, consistent in all things, including his inconsistencies.

"That's not fair," a hint of the internal conflict plaguing the doctor had seeped into his voice. "I know what you're trying to do." John's face had gone hard, his eyes unseeing. "I could've killed him, you know. Spaulding too. Just a matter of centimeters. And I have to live with the fact that I struggled with the choice both times. Especially with Spaulding. I know I should be appalled that I even had to think about doing the right thing, but I'm really not. I've actually been second guessing my choices, and that goes against everything I've ever known; it makes me weak. I am mentally and physically compromised, and that is humiliating."

"John Watson, you stop this. There is not a weak fiber in your being." Sherlock punctuated his exasperated declaration by jumping to his feet. He cut a rather imposing figure as he loomed over his flat mate. "You have been through an exceedingly traumatic experience, and have handled yourself admirably, with more strength than anyone else I know could have. All things considered, you wouldn't even have been forced into those situations if I hadn't rushed into those tunnels Sunday. Let _me_ take the blame; wrapping your bindings and fixing your tea can be my penance. You have got to stop agonizing over this. _Just stop._ "

"Oh, this is definitely your fault," John laughed and smiled a genuine smile, though not all the tension had quite eased from his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes with a huff and feigned insult. "Agonizing over things is kind of my method of operation though, yeah? I just have to work through it, and that might take time."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and scrutinized his friend until he was satisfied John was being sincere. "Right." With that the consulting detective swept dramatically from the room to set about preparing tea and ice packs. John shook his head and ever so gently set about working the loose fitting t-shirt up and over his right arm. He pulled it over his head and stuffed his left arm through easily.

Yeah. More than a little irksome that it was, in fact, so easy.

John eased his right arm into the sling, determined to complete this one act on his own, but it was no good. He couldn't reach the clasp to adjust the tension.

With a groan John heaved himself up from his chair, managed a few hobbled steps, and stood staring at the tin of scones mocking him from the floor next to Sherlock's chair.

"Don't even think about it," Sherlock cautioned. Sherlock placed the serving tray he'd been carrying on the coffee table, and with incredibly few impossibly graceful motions, he retrieved the tin and held it out to John. "Here. Now, let me adjust that sling for you. Good? Not too tight?"

"Yeah, fine. Thanks." John couldn't help but smile. "Back to business, is it?"

Sherlock had retrieved the laptop and binder of John's medical history, and was steering his friend deliberately toward the couch. "You did promise."

John yielded to Sherlock's care, and soon found himself sufficiently propped up with ice packs in place, steaming tea in reach, and scone in hand. What the self-proclaimed sociopath lacked in bedside manner, he certainly made up for with efficiency and obsessive attention to detail.

"So..."

"The phone call," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, the phone call at the very end of the video from last night. I didn't want to..." John hesitated a beat, and decided to alter his approach. "You have to understand, he was only trying to help. I don't believe he would have..."

"'He' being Mycroft?" Sherlock ventured. John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "And by 'help' I suppose you mean he intended to have you sectioned." Sherlock growled the last word, and made no effort to conceal his rancor.

"He'd seen the whole thing, with the guns, and all. At least he had the courtesy to call and let me know there was a car on the way. He intended to take both of us. Said it was the best facility in the country, and that he'd take care of everything. As if that was what I'd be concerned about." John reached for his tea, but aborted the attempt when he realized his hand had started to shake. "I, uhm, yeah... I managed to convince him to leave Greg alone, since he only acted the way he had to talk me down."

With a nod Sherlock conceded his appreciation. "It _was_ crazy though, Lestrade's plan."

"Oh, certifiable. Definitely. But I wasn't about to let Mycroft ruin Greg's career, and future, just because he took a calculated risk to help me."

"The paperwork indicates that the process was started, but then ceased," Sherlock flipped the John binder open.

"Ugh, I don't need to see it," John waved his trembling hand. "I convinced Mycroft to call off his goons, in exchange for pursuing my own treatment plan."

"I don't see another facility listed here," thumbing through the binder, Sherlock directed a questioning glance at his friend.

"A colleague, one of the therapists at the hospital, had mentioned to me in passing several years ago that she volunteered at something she called a 'respite center.' It's a place for people who are done contemplating suicide, and are ready to commit the act. It's kind of like... uhm, like a suicide crisis line, except instead of calling and talking to someone for twenty minutes, you go there and stay in this house for four nights. There are people there to talk to all day and night, or you can hide yourself away from all the madness. They don't diagnose or offer any sort of medical treatment, they just _listen_ and help you sort out your options." John toyed with a loose thread on a cushion.

Suddenly the very thought of eye contact was overwhelming.

"So, no medical record to be generated." Not a question, more a statement of the obvious. Sherlock noted the relief in John's posture that he had opted to go the clinical route as opposed to the more invasive _how-does-that-make-you-feel_ route.

"Hmm," John hummed consent, though he was careful to keep his eyes averted. "I wasn't sure at that point if I would even be able to continue a medical career, but there's a certain... _stigma_ that comes with a medical professional having been sectioned. A doctor should know better. Know the warning signs. Use the resources. Respect the sanctity of life. All that... _stuff_."

Sherlock watched with renewed interest as John's fingers worried circular patterns around the now thoroughly abused cushion thread. His own fingers fidgeted along the seam of his dressing gown, wanting nothing more than to still his friend's fretting, but unwilling to intrude in the obvious calming effect of the repetitive motion.

"This 'respite center,' they helped you then?" A tentative query, nearly whispered, so as not to disrupt the doctor's necessary deliberation of the calming effect of synthetic fibers.

"Yes, after a manner." John tugged at the distressed thread. He glanced quickly at Sherlock, but looked away with haste. "It was hard for me to share too much with the volunteers there, but it was comforting to know that they were available. I was relieved that I didn't have to come directly back here to the flat and face... all of this." John indicate the room around them with a sideways nod of his head. "Probably would have done something very stupid if I'd come straight home that day. Instead I stayed there four nights, got my thoughts together, got past the immediate crisis, and set an appointment with my therapist for as soon as I left there."

Sherlock sniffed derisively. "And how was that?"

"Surprisingly...okay," John huffed a weak laugh. "She wanted to medicate me first thing."

"And?"

"I let her." John closed his eyes and sunk a little deeper into the sofa. "Didn't even question her choice. One of the worst mistakes I've ever made."

"Explain."

"Well... they helped for a little while. But there were side effects," John yanked the loose thread free with a grunt, flicked it to the floor, and pulled the laptop open. "Best to just show you, I think."

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **04/05/14**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

"God, it's May. Why is it so cold?" John burrowed more deeply into his coat as he braced himself to face the wind beating against the other side of the rooftop door. He shouldered the door open with a little more force than necessary, and stumbled a few steps out onto the roof before he could right himself.

Yes. That was the reason he stumbled.

It certainly had nothing to do with the flask in his pocket.

People generally frowned upon bottles in brown paper bags. Flasks were more discreet.

And dignified.

At least that's what he told himself.

He stomped over to spot where Moriarty offed himself and planted his feet defiantly. He had prepared for this moment. Two years. It had been two whole years. Two years deserved lofty words and deep insights. Insights he had spent hours... no, _days_... organizing.

Unfortunately, those days were kind of hazy, and his well-crafted lecture evaporated into the fog of booze and God knows what else. With a growl of contempt for the one he was a addressing, as well as for himself, he settled on a poorly constructed diatribe of lazy curses and vulgarities. Far from his best. "Screw. You." John hissed. He spat twice on the spot before him, flashed a two finger salute, and took a large swallow from the flask.

Someone somewhere behind him cleared his throat, interrupting his angry reverie. John spun around, but the movement cause a sudden burst of vertigo and he had to fling his arms out haphazardly to maintain his balance. "Greg. God, you startled me." His steps faltered as he made his way to Greg's perch on the ledge.

Greg lit a cigarette. It didn't appear to be his first. John tried to count the spent butts at the detective's feet... Yeah... So, a lot then...

"Wasn't sure you were going to be here, mate." Greg's tone was cold and calculated. He took a slow drag off his cigarette and folded his arms across his chest.

 _Probably for warmth._

"Whoa," John shook his head in confusion and held his hands up in defense, "why wouldn't I? What's eating you?"

"Just you've been doing a lot of that lately, the whole not being there." Greg flicked his cigarette and eyed the bulge in John's pocket where the flask was tucked away.

 _Not for warmth, then._

"Well, here I am," John retorted as he tapped a cigarette out of the pack Greg had laid beside him on the ledge, and sat down next him; both men kept their backs to the street below. Greg narrowed his eyes as he watched John light the cigarette with slightly more practiced hands than before. He kept his glare trained on the doctor as he took one, and then another, long drags off the cigarette without so much as a cough.

"God. _What?_ What is the problem?" John turned on Greg.

"You smoke now?" The question was flung more as an accusation than an expression of concern.

John barked a contemptuous laugh and pointed the fingers holding his cigarette at Greg. "That's a bit hypocritical, yeah? But sure, I have the occasional smoke, okay? Not enough to warrant whatever _this_ is all about."

"You're a doctor. You know better," Greg growled.

"You hide in the parking garage, _detective_." John shrugged.

"This isn't about _me_! This is about _you_!" Greg jumped up and shouted his rant in John's face.

"I don't even know what _THIS_ is!" John yelled back. He flicked his cigarette away and stood to face Greg head on. "And I suggest you take a step back."

"Or what, John? Take a step back or what?" Greg took a step forward, directly into John's personal space. He sniffed loudly. "You're drunk!"

"So? Are you?" John growled. "I'm serious Greg, I don't know what it is you're on about, but you need to step back right now."

Greg leveled his glare directly at John, and through clenched teeth replied, "It is 7:45 AM. And this," he snatched the flask from John's pocket, "is _empty_ already." He waved the flask in John's face.

"Greg," John's tone had gone feral. He tried to grab the flask back, but Greg was too quick.

"You want this? Fine. Go get it!" Greg tossed the flask over the edge of the building to the street below. John's eyes went wide with panic as he spun around peered at the startled pedestrians below.

"You idiot! You could've _killed_ someone!" John swung around to face Greg and shoved him backward with his full force. "What were you thinking?" He fought to control his rapidly increasing breath.

"Oh, too reckless for you, _doctor_? I thought maybe you'd enjoy that," Greg spat.

"I. Don't. Know. What. You're. Talking. About." John roared.

"I know what you did! I know... _God_ , John. GOD. I know," Greg paced away from John, and then back rapidly, scrubbing his hand over his face. "Did you think we wouldn't figure it out. Do you think I'm _so_ stupid, that I wouldn't put the pieces together?" Greg resumed his pacing, swearing as he went.

John's resolve wavered as realization dawned across his features. "Uhm, wha... H-how..." He cursed himself for allowing the tremor in his voice.

"Mycroft sent me the report. He thought it would be best if local law enforcement brought them in, and I agreed with him. These were bad men. We could have brought them in on any number of charges, and _made them stick_ , without drawing any attention to the whole Moriarty connection. I had a plan, John. Bring them in, keep it quiet, not draw any unwanted attention, and keep Mrs. Hudson and you safe. I had that report in my hand for less than a day, and then you disappeared on me. _GOD_ , what was I supposed to think?" Greg paused in front of John. "When Mycroft couldn't find you... We thought... _I_ thought you were _dead_ John. You..." Greg growled. He turned to pace away, but spun back around and hit John with a fierce right hook.

John didn't have time to react.

Not that he could have.

Aside from the fact that he hadn't ingested anything besides alcohol in the last twenty-four hours, the realization that Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard had discovered his dirty little secret had rendered him utterly immobile.

Completely catatonic.

No use fighting.

The blow to the face caused him to crumple to the roof below him. He curled onto his side and wrapped his arms around his middle. Greg's shoes came into his line of sight.

"Oh no. No you don't. Get up. Right now, John. Get. Up." Greg commanded. Crouching down, he forced John into a sitting position, and held him up with one hand on his shoulder. "C'mon John, I'm not messing around." When John failed to respond, Greg shook his head, and unapologetically slapped him across the face. "Snap out of it!"

With a gasp John blinked, came to himself, and covered his cheek with his hand. "God, Greg. You hit me?" He drew his knees in towards his chest and wrapped his free right arm around his legs.

"I thought you were _DEAD_ , you idiot. What else was I supposed to do?"

"But... you hit me. _Twice_. Ever heard of a hug? God." John fingered the growing bruise just under his left eye.

"Judas priest, John," Greg sat down facing John, his right shoulder next to John's knees, and mimicked John's posture. "What are we going to do? You killed those guys."

Exhaling deeply, John closed his eyes and leaned a little into Greg's knees for support. "Who else has figured it out? How long do I have?"

"So far, I'm the only one. But it's only a matter of time." Greg lit a cigarette, and offered one to John, who took it readily. "You had to know we'd test the bullets," Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, "and that we'd match those bullets to the cabbie."

"But that one is still unsolved. You never made an arrest," John argued weakly. He knew full well how ludicrous he sounded.

"I've known it was you since that night. You're not the only one who was getting to be fluent in Sherlock. His deductions of the shooter, and the way he clammed up then all but devoured you with his eyes. Good Lord, he might as well have put the cuffs on you himself." Greg smirked and took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Why didn't you arrest me?"

Greg ran his hand over his head. "I... I watched Sherlock Holmes restrain himself for the first time since I had met him that night. He deliberately held back information that would literally make his case in order to protect you. As far as I could tell, he had never done that before. Not once. I think he would have thrown his own mum under the bus if it would have solved a case. But not you. Hmm," Greg inspected the ash on the tip of his cigarette before flicking it away and taking a drag. "I had to see for myself what it was Sherlock saw."

"Oh my God, Greg. What the..." John ducked his head, and buried his face in his hands in an attempt to hide his emotion.

"Besides," Greg added, "the evidence wasn't going anywhere. I knew if you ever blew it, I could just arrest you and be done with it."

John groaned. "Well, I guess you've got your opportunity. Just... Can you do it? Please? Not Dimmock or any of those other guys. And not Sally. God, please don't let Sally arrest me."

"Really? After that night you two went out, I figured you'd be okay with her putting the hand cuffs on you," Greg snickered, though his face remained grim.

"No. That was _NOT_ a date, and you know it. NOT. A. DATE." John swore under his breath. "No. Just... No."

* * *

 **PRESENT**

"Oh God," Sherlock dry heaved. "Please, tell me you did not go on a date with Sally Donovan."

Even as a doctor, John had never actually seen someone turn green when they were ill, but Sherlock was very near there.

"What? No! God, Sherlock!"

"I knew you were in distress while I was away, but I had no idea I'd driven you to such baseless desperation. John, I..."

"Shut up, you idiot!" John laughed. "God. I did not go on a date with Sally Donovan. We had drinks one night, as friends, but..."

"Oh God," Sherlock groaned.

"But really... that's all you're taking away from this right now? Is one _not_ date with Sally?"

"No, no. We'll have words about your other indiscretions soon enough. This though... this is just... just..."

John rolled his eyes, and with a sigh pressed play.

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **04/05/14**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

"No. Just... No."

"Whatever you say," Greg shrugged. He flicked away his spent cigarette butt and pulled out another. "You two went to the shooting range that night. She knows you can shoot."

"I was pretty tipsy by then."

"Mhm. No good. She told me after that you handle a gun better drunk than most of the guys on the force sober. Next."

"We didn't use my gun."

Greg paused, cigarette halfway to his lips. "That. That is good. Very good. Because she would have asked to fire it, and she does this quirky thing where she keeps a spent round from every gun she shoots for the first time." Greg sighed in relief. "God. I thought for sure she'd have that round sitting up on her shelf, just waiting for her to notice the striations."

"She'll still be the one to figure it out first, you think?" John wrapped both arms around his knees and pulled them in more tightly.

"Probably so. Though I'm sure Mycroft knows by now too."

John sighed. "That file he sent you. I compiled that you know." Greg blinked in surprise. "A few months after Sherlock jumped, Mycroft asked me to review some medical records for a few of his agents. I figured he was just trying to be nice. I kind of halfway went at it, scribbled down a few notes, and sent the files back. A week later he sent more with the request that I type my notes that time. That went on for several months. Sometimes it was weekly, sometimes every few weeks. Nothing steady. One day he sent a car for me, took me to his offices, and asked me to have a look at some potential threats. Told me to type out my observations, no matter how insignificant they seemed. I did that for about an hour that day, and then he offered to pay me to keep doing it."

"Wait. So, you work for MI6?" Greg had dropped his cigarette and was brushing at the slightly singed mark on his coat as he cursed. "God, John. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Classified. I'm only telling you now because I'm already in trouble. Might as well add treason, yeah?"

"Just... stop talking." Greg groaned as he stretched and slowly stood up. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and began pacing.

"Greg?"

"Shh." Greg shushed him, waved him off, and kept pacing. John bit his lip in an effort to keep from smiling.

 _When did Greg start acting like Sherlock?_

"You wrote that report?" Greg stopped in front of John and waited for him to respond.

"Yes." John had to look away to keep from giggling.

Greg narrowed his eyes, "As an employee of MI6, you filed that report to your superior?"

" _Yes_." That was all it took. John snickered, and tried unsuccessfully to cover it with a cough.

"What? What is funny right now?" Greg snipped as he pulled out his mobile and began texting furiously.

"Oh my God, Greg." John doubled over in hysterics. "When did you _become_ Sherlock? With the dramatic pacing, and the shushing, and the... the..." Greg's phone buzzed a response. John laughed so hard he cried. "That's not Mycroft is it? It is. It's Mycroft."

"I..." Greg turned his back on John, but not before the doctor noted the crimson spreading across the detective's face. He took a few deep breaths, and gave John a moment to compose himself.

"Right," Greg turned back to John. He had clearly stepped into D.I. mode. John sat up a little straighter. "John, I need to clarify a few things."

"O-okay..."

"The two men in question, the ones that you... you know... How did you recognize them?"

"The one matched the description Mrs. Hudson gave me of the man who was at Baker Street the day Sherlock jumped. The other man I remembered seeing around your office area at the Yard, but didn't recall having ever actually been introduced to him. Thought that was odd." John explained carefully. He decided to stand as well.

Maybe there really was something to the pacing.

"Good, okay," Greg thought carefully. "What was it about those two men that was troubling to you?"

"They both seemed out of place. Neither belonged in those respective settings. And then I found Sherlock's phone, and we learned that Moriarty had assassins ready to kill Mrs. Hudson, you, and myself, if Sherlock didn't jump. Those two men fit the profiles, especially since they disappeared completely off the grid after that day. The one at Baker Street I can almost understand, but the guy at the Yard, if he was an actual employee, someone would have noticed, yeah?"

"Too right," Greg nodded. "When did they turn back up?"

"About a month ago. It wouldn't have seemed too unusual if it had been just one of them. Moriarty's guys would do that. One would pop up here or there, usually as a distraction for some off shoot trying to start something. But they both showed up back in London in the same week. Never together, but too close for comfort. And too close to their original targets." John caught Greg's eye and swallowed hard. Greg nodded in understanding.

"I knew Mycroft was sending you that report. But, I also knew that if they were after their original targets, you'd be in the line of fire. So, I disappeared. Tracked them. As you said, they were both very bad guys. I waited until I could catch each of them in particularly heinous crimes, and I neutralized the threat." John had stopped pacing and stood looking out over the city. "I'd do it again too."

Greg stepped up next to John, still gripping his phone in one hand. "So, you made your move based on information gathered for MI6?"

"What? Yes. How many times do I need to say that?" John sighed in frustration.

"Just the once," Mycroft condescended from Greg's mobile.

"God, you sneaky..." John punched Greg on the shoulder. The detective just rolled his eyes and grinned.

"Mycroft, what do you think?" Greg asked.

"Taking into consideration the parties involved, their proximity to the Moriarty affair, and the obvious potential for threat, I am prepared to issue retro dated documentation granting Doctor Watson, as an employee of MI6, temporary security clearance, as well as a field assignment order, to neutralize said threats. I presume that will cease any further investigation by your division, Detective Inspector." Mycroft sounded positively disinterested.

"There is the matter of the bullets," Greg supplied.

"My office will be issuing a request to have all evidence and documentation transferred to our storage. If that will suffice, I must take my leave."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Sincerely. Thank you," John would have hugged the man if were present.

"Doctor Watson, you and I will be discussing the ramifications of your indiscretions when next we meet. Good day, Detective." With that the call disconnected, leaving the D.I. and the doctor to stare at one another, looks of awe (translation: terror) on their faces.

"What does _that_ mean?" Greg gulped.

"I... Huh." John shook his head and shrugged. Both men stood awkwardly staring at each other. "So... I'm not dead, and I'm not going to prison. Think I can get that hug now?"

"God no. I'm still pissed at you." Greg sat down on the ledge and swung his legs out over the edge. "Suicide by stupidity is still suicide, you know."

"Oh let it go!" John groaned. "I had to do it to save your life!"

* * *

 **PRESENT**

"I would just like to point out..."

"Touché. Don't be smug."

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **04/05/14**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

"I had to do it to save your life!"

"Right. Next time? We do this together, or not at all. You hear me? Just like everything else. You don't leave me behind like that again," Greg demanded.

With a nod, John conceded.

* * *

 **PRESENT**

"Ahem."

"Ugh, noted."

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **04/05/14**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

"You don't leave me behind like that again," Greg demanded.

With a nod, John conceded.

"And this drinking. It's got to stop. A drink now and then? Fine. I even understood getting completely smashed a few times, especially at the beginning. But this," Greg pointed at John, "this is getting ridiculous. A flask, John? What in God's name are you doing?"

John took his time sitting down on the ledge and swinging his legs out over the edge, in order to sit next to Greg. "I don't know what happened. I hadn't had a drop after that day on the roof a year ago. I knew the booze was a big part of my problem that day. So I swore it off. Didn't even have any at the flat. I was feeling pretty good, you know? Therapy was... tolerable. I was working for Mycroft, picked up a shift here and there at the clinic, and started helping you out with those abuse cases. First time ever the antidepressants seemed to be doing their job."

With a shrug, John continued. "We had a few pub nights, and I felt in control enough to have a few pints. Somewhere around the third time out, it all went out of control. A drink here and there on my own, and suddenly it was every day. God, Greg, I get these violent urges just to drink as much as I can. And I crave it, and it won't go away. On top of that, I just have days where I don't care what happens. I have done some really reckless, _stupid_ things. That night out with Sally was one. Going after those guys, that all started on one of my reckless days."

"What does the therapist say?" Greg's brow was creased in concern.

"She seems to think it's the genetic predisposition to addictive behavior."

"Not seriously."

"Yeah. Dad was a drunk, older sister is too, so it's only inevitable. Blah, blah, blah." John hung his head in shame.

"What do you think, John? Could it be anything else?"

"I've been reading through some old medical journals, and I found an article... I think it's a side effect of the meds. Of course, the one prescribing the pills doesn't want to hear that. She won't listen to me, accuses me of trying to self-diagnose. She's trying to convince me to go to rehab. Threatened to involve Mycroft. I... I don't think I'm wrong, though." John sighed, despair evident on his face.

"What would happen if you just stopped taking the pills?"

"I'm not sure. But I'm to that point now. I won't end up like my father. Or Harry. I can't do it. I just... I need..."

"Anything," Greg interrupted. "I'm serious. _Anything_ you need. You've got it. You wanna stay in our guest room for a few days, just to try it out? Molly won't mind. We can go get your stuff right now."

John huffed a laugh. "I... uhm, okay. Yeah. Yes, I do want to do that. I'm desperate. I just want to be me again, even if that means I'm sad forever."

"Oh God, John. I'm so relieved. I... we... You were drifting away from us, and it was killing me. I need you, you know. Brothers? And I still have my days. Molly tries to help, but there are some days, I just..."

"Greg, I'm so sorry. I just, I'm really going to work on fixing this, okay?" John's smile was uncertain. "And I really am so happy you and Molly have each other. You're so good for each other."

"I'm actually really happy to hear you say that, John. I..." Greg ducked his head and tried to stifle a giggle.

"Oh my God. You proposed. You're getting married?!"

"Yeah. Yeah we're getting married." Greg was beaming.

"When did that happen?" John was grinning.

"Two nights ago. We were walking through the park, and happened upon a small Shakespeare company putting on a production of Romeo and Juliette..."

"What is it with you and Shakespeare, Greg? God. I think you're the one who needs help!" John laughed.

"No arguments there. It was just, so beautiful, and Molly was beautiful, and well, that's it. She said yes." Greg grinned. "And then we had our first fight as an engaged couple."

"Oh yeah? Do tell."

"Well, it was about you, John."

"Oh, God," John groaned.

"No, no. You know you're my brother. But you're our best friend. Mine and Molly's. And well, we fought over who was going to ask you to stand up with them."

"Stop!" John laughed. "No you didn't."

"I swear on Mycroft's umbrella we did. She's going to be furious that I'm talking to you about this right now."

"Well, the choice is obvious, though I do have one question," John turned suddenly very serious. "If I were to stand with Molly, would I get to wear one of those fluffy monstrosities of a dress? Because otherwise, I'm out."

"I think we could arrange that!" Greg was on the verge of hysterics. "Idiot."

"Okay, okay. Really though, Greg, I'm honored, of course I'll stand up with you. You're my best friend and my brother. We stand together always, yeah?"

"I'd say we should go celebrate, but..." Greg looked to John with concern on his face.

"I could really use some tea right now," John slowly turned and stood from the ledge.

"That sounds perfect. We'll pick Molly up, and you can break the sad news to her," Greg winked. "One more thing... I think I owe you this..." Greg turned to John and swept him up into a fierce hug. John held onto Greg as if his life depended on it. "Everything together, yeah?"

"Always."

* * *

 **PRESENT**

"Topics that are off limits, at least for the time being: Sally Donovan. Anything else? Have at it." John attempted a smile at Sherlock, who had fixed a very sullen, searching stare on John. "And that's a bit creepy..."

"Do you regret killing those two assassins?" Sherlock cut in.

"I, uhm, no. No I do not. I caught them in the midst of committing crimes, and they needed to be stopped. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson and Greg were in danger. As I said, I would do it again."

Sherlock charged ahead. "But you feel tormented over contemplating killing Wilson and Spaulding? Despite the fact that both were involved in ongoing crime, and both times you were the one in danger?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again immediately.

"Your reasoning is flawed. You either have to be tormented over the other two as well, or you have to get over Wilson and Spaulding, who you merely injured. I suggest you choose the latter." Sherlock submitted, matter-of-factly.

"Uhm, okay... but..."

"Mycroft never told me who the operative was that took out those two assassins. I always had my suspicions, but he had assured me you never did any field work. I believe you said as much as well."

"Whoa, okay, new topic then. It wasn't labelled a field assignment until after the fact, to cover my hide. I wasn't actually ever approved to go out, I just did it on my own. It was incredibly stupid and reckless, and I could have jeopardized the whole operation. Or gotten you killed. The label of field assignment was a technicality."

"Yes, it was incredibly risky. It actually changed my entire strategy." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "I was saving those two and Moran for last, for obvious reasons. The problem was, Moran had been one step ahead of me for months. I couldn't flush him out. Those two underlings got word that someone was hunting their boss, and they got suspicious. They decided to head back to London, on the off chance that Moran would show up, and would order the original plan of attack. If they got word Moran had been killed, they were going to act on their own."

John exhaled deeply, unable to mask the shock on his face.

"You were right to pursue them. When word got to Moran that a mysterious assassin had put down his two men, hello, yes, that's you, he decided to make his move. He was on his way back here to..." Sherlock hesitated, and inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

"He was coming for me, wasn't he?" John asked boldly.

"Indeed. But he got sloppy in his haste. I intercepted him before he even set foot back into London. With those three out of the way, there were only minor players left to dispose of here. I was able to get home six months sooner because of what you did. I suppose I owe you my appreciation for that..."

"Wait. _WAIT_. You were in London for six months before you showed up here? Wha... WHY?" John fought to maintain his breathing. He clenched and unclenched his fists.

"I had to do it to save your life?" Sherlock forced a sappy grin.

"Oh... you... you..." John focused on breathing. "You only get to use that once. Are you sure you want to use it this soon?"

"Do I have any other options?"

"No. No you do not." John huffed a laugh. "God, Sherlock." John shook his head. "There's more, isn't there?"

"I need to understand this medication and the effect it had on you."

"Antidepressants... They alter brain chemistry. Prescribing medication isn't an exact science. Body chemistry has as much to do with the effectiveness of a drug as the chemistry of the medication itself. In the interest of over simplifying it, the medication I was on did seem to suppress the parts of my brain that wouldn't allow me to fight my way out of the depression, but in so doing, it was like they removed some of the barriers that kept the addictive, reckless parts of my brain in check. So, I was doing stupid things, and feeling no remorse for it." John frowned. "That's a fairly terrible explanation of it."

"No, I think I see. The medication stripped away your John-ness." Sherlock furled his brow and frowned deeply.

"My 'John-ness'? What does that mean?"

"The part of you that cares too much about the choices you make, that agonizes over doing the right thing. The part of you that makes sure you are at your best so that you can be your best for everyone else. The part of you that overcomes adversity by sheer force of will. By altering your brain chemistry, your therapist was trying to turn you into someone else." Sherlock exhaled deeply. Then inhaled deliberately. He continued to do so.

It took John several seconds to fully realize what was happening.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you've got to calm down. Just keep breathing, okay? You're doing just fine. You're fine. I'm fine. Look at me... look, you said it, I'm agonizing over Spaulding. _Spaulding_ , that brute. I found my John-ness, okay? It's still there."

"You... what if you hadn't? What if..."

"Keep breathing, Sherlock."

"What if you hadn't figured out it was the medication? Are there long term effects? How do you know it didn't do permanent damage?"

"God, Sherlock, breathe. Come on. In... Out... In... Out... There. Keep going." John had assumed his calming doctor tone. Sherlock appeared infinitely relieved by this simple gesture. "I'm here, Sherlock. This is me. I did figure out it was the pills. Maybe not as soon as a I should have, but I did."

"You were compromised," Sherlock whispered.

"Yes, you could say that. But I'm better now. And you're here now." John soothed.

"But you aren't completely better, you still have nightmares. And, and..."

"I do. But I had those things before too."

"But I made them worse. And then I broke you, and they tried to alter your brain. Your beautiful brain. And that's my fault." Sherlock groaned as a few tears slid unchecked from his eyes.

"Sherlock, please, please stop this. I don't want this, okay? I don't want you mourning over me. I'm right here. I'm still here. I faded out a few times while you were gone, but now you're back, and so am I. I'm tired of mourning." John pleaded, fighting off his own tears. He brushed a tear from Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. The Velcro from his wrist brace latched on to a lock of Sherlock's hair. "Oh... Oh no... God, I'm so sorry. Nonono. God, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I..." John squeezed his eyes closed in humiliation.

A deep laugh rumbled next to him. "We are a pair of idiots aren't we?" Sherlock decided on the quick approach, and ripped his hair from John's brace.

"I believe so," John laughed.

"There is one more thing..." Sherlock began tentatively.

"Anything, Sherlock. What can I do?" John's eagerness to help his flat mate spurred Sherlock on.

"If I'm very careful, may I hug you? It's just... You and Lestrade hug, and I just... I want..."

"I wish you would," John nodded.

It was ten kinds of awkward, with all of John's injuries. They settled on Sherlock tucked into John's left side, with John's one good arm wrapped protectively around the consulting detective, and Sherlock wrapped _gently_ around John's middle. It was an embrace perfectly indicative of the ones caught up in it, and they held on to each other like two halves of a whole.


	5. 4 May, 2015

**Tuesday, 5 May, 2015**  
 **221b Baker Street**

A startled gasp.

A pained groan.

 _Don't panic. Breathe. Just a quick kip. Get your bearings before you open your eyes._

 _You are: Capt... Doctor John H. Watson._

 _Surroundings: Smells of tea (variety: black, Darjeeling) and chemicals (variety: who in God's name actually knows right now), sound of traffic outside, overly warm. Home. 221b. Baker Street. London. Further climate assessment needed._

 _Injured._

 _Physical assessment: Nobody has time for all that. Product of physical assault by criminal. No... two criminals._

 _Sherlock._

 _Status: Not dead._

 _Location: Oh. Right. Excessive heat quandary resolved._

 _Waking factor: Footsteps ascending stairs to residence. Steady, no hesitation. Rule out Mrs. Hudson. Male, efficient gait, heavy soled shoes (also efficient). Rule out Mycroft. Conclusion, Greg._

 _Employ tactical defense in three... two..._

"Go on ahead and take the picture. Not even Molly and all of the equipment she has access to in the mortuary will be able to extract that mobile from where I'm going to put it." John opened one eye in time to see Greg hovering in the doorway to the flat, Sherlock's freshly cleaned great coat draped over his arm, mobile at the ready.

"Come over here and say that." Greg's grin was the very definition of devious. He snapped the photo, took two steps closer and snapped two more. "For posterity's sake."

"I swear to God, Greg," John hissed, but his tirade was cut short when Sherlock, who had not only fallen asleep, but remained wrapped around John's midsection, began to stir. "Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock, Greg's here." John spoke softly, not wanting to startle his friend.

"Nnggnnghhh," Sherlock mumbled as he somehow managed to bury his face into John's side, twist around and draw his legs up until he was in a tight ball with his back to Greg, all without releasing his arms from around John.

John huffed. "It's no good. The lanky idiot's had me tethered to the couch now for... What time is it anyway? I haven't even seen my phone since yesterday. It's over..." He motioned noncommittally with his left hand towards his arm chair and the backpack still sitting on the floor from yesterday. "Somewhere."

Greg draped his jacket over the back of one of the chairs, and dug through John's backpack until he found the mobile. "It's about 11:30 AM now. Yeah, it's dead. Let me plug it in. Probably just as well, I imagine you were spared a lot of prying." He plugged it in near the couch, despite the fact that John wouldn't be able to reach it even if he needed to. Taking advantage of his close proximity, Greg turned quickly and snapped a close up of the consulting detective snuggling his blogger.

"God, I hate you right now!" John laughed. He managed to pull a pillow out from behind his back and flung it at the D.I., but in his current abused and entangled state, his aim was less than perfect and Greg just grinned as he easily managed to catch the cushion.

"It's nothing personal John, at least against you. After the whole scene with Sherlock in his boxers at the train yard yesterday, he has to know I'm going to take every bit of revenge I can get. You're just... collateral damage." Greg shrugged. "Besides, I think I just won the Sherlock and John office pool." With a wink Greg turned to pull up a chair.

John's aim was better this time, and his friend ended up with a mushy bag of no-longer-frozen peas against the back of his head. "Oops," John attempted his best _wasn't me_ face.

"Real mature, yeah?" with a laugh Greg scooped up the bag and examined it with some curiosity. "Peas?"

" _Frozen_ peas. For ice packs. Sherlock always destroys the gel ones."

"Well, this one is a little on the... mushy warm side." Greg frowned. "You got more in the freezer? I'll change these out for you." Without waiting for a response he gathered all of John's cold packs and headed to the kitchen. "Let me guess, lima beans?"

"We'll make a detective of you yet! But yeah, they're Sherlock-proof," laughed John. "Mind grabbing a glass of water too? Past due for pain meds. Starting to feel it."

"Sure thing." Returning to the sitting room, Greg set the water out of the way as he wrapped the refrozen-and-only-slightly-mushy lima beans. He handed one to John for his shoulder, and plumping the cushion the doctor had his right leg propped on, he arranged the cold packs on his knee and ankle. He noticed a discarded half-eaten scone and an untouched cup of long cold tea within John's reach.

Well, they would have been within John's reach if not for the boa constrictor hold his dead-to-the-world flat mate had on him.

Greg narrowed his eyes and gave John an appraising once over. John squirmed under the scrutiny. Or, he would have squirmed if every movement wasn't excruciating, not to mention restrained by Sherlock. "You look bloody awful, mate. Like death warmed over. The bruises on your face are a _lot_ worse than yesterday."

Detecting the accusatory tone in Greg's voice, John raised an eyebrow. "Right. Thanks for that then. Kinda feeling that way right now too. You mind?" John pointed to the bottle of pills on the coffee table.

"You're not supposed to take these on an empty stomach. When's the last time you ate?" Greg looked pointedly from John to the abandoned breakfast on the table.

"I...uhm." John stuttered. The D.I. rolled his eyes, twisted open the medication, and tipped two pills into John's hand. John had dry swallowed the pills before Greg could retrieve the water, but he handed him the glass anyway.

"Drink." Greg demanded. John managed a few gulps, and handed the glass back to the detective. Greg picked up the half eaten scone, shoved it into John's hand, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Eat that. I'll get the tea started." He picked up the cold tea from the table and stepped toward the kitchen. John groaned. "No. No arguments," Greg spun around. "If you're going to heal properly, you've to take care of yourself..."

Buried against John's side, Sherlock mumbled something again. It sounded very much like, "dyuooshup."

John gently shook Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey, what was that? Sherlock? We couldn't hear you."

With a groan, Sherlock tilted his face to look up at John. "I said 'Would you two shut up?'" With that he tucked his face back into John's side, as if it were the most natural position in the world. Greg snorted. John exhaled sharply, once again finding himself indebted to the bruising on his face for concealing the fact that he was blushing.

John's embarrassment was quickly overcome in the next moment.

Sherlock would refer to the event for years to come as the time his transport tried to kill John. John would, for years to come, counter with the fact that if Sherlock didn't stop being an idiot and bloody well get some sleep, the transport was going to kill itself.

It was reflexive, really.

Sherlock's mind had slipped back into the haze of post-case exhaustion, and had effectively surrendered dominance to the baser needs of the transport.

At that very moment, all the transport knew was that the mind had acquiesced control, and was happily curled in sleep next to an exquisite source of warmth and comfort that seemed to put both mind and body at ease. The only need the transport had was to get as close to this serenity as possible.

John tensed immediately as Sherlock, lost in sleep, shifted higher up his torso to rest his head on his chest, very near his heart.

 _A little extra pressure on the cracked ribs; spleen could be better. Not so bad. It's fine. I'm fine. We're fine. It's all fine._ John gauged his breathing - as long as he still could, he figured he'd be alright at least for a little while.

Greg snorted. Again.

And then those lanky vice grips Sherlock called arms tracked slightly upward as well, and clutched more fervently around John in an instinctive effort to draw ever closer to the source of warmth.

Unfortunately Sherlock's embrace now pressed directly over John's bruised internal organs and weighed heavily across several of the cracked ribs. _Not fine. Everything is not fine. Oh God. Oh God. Not fine._ John's mind screamed. Physically screaming seemed like it would only make everything worse. His entire focus placed on not screaming meant John had little control over his good left leg, which tried to vault him away from the danger, but in reality only jarred the rest of his aching body. "Sh-sher...lock!" John managed to gasp.

"Shhh," mumbled the sleeping Sherlock as he pressed a little closer into John's warmth.

John couldn't have screamed if he had wanted to. His vision flashed white with the new wave of pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut. No longer focused on not screaming, or anything else for that matter, he attempted to keep himself breathing. He was failing miserably considering the already limited lung capacity thanks to six broken ribs; he could only manage very short, very shallow, very erratic breaths. Somewhere in his cache of medical knowledge he knew he was going to lose consciousness in a few short minutes.

Frankly, it didn't matter. Might even be preferable.

To his credit, Greg did _not_ overreact by launching himself across the coffee table and forcibly removing Sherlock, realizing immediately that the ensuing struggle would only cause more harm to John. He did, however, overreact by tossing the full cup of tea away from him (and on to Mrs. Hudson's clean area rug... _there would be consequences_ ), shouting a string of profanities John would have ordinarily applauded for their colorful creativity, shoving the coffee table out of the way (mindful of John's leg, of course), and roaring at Sherlock to wake up.

Sherlock stirred, but true to form, failed to respond.

"John? John you have to keep breathing. Can you slow it down any?" Greg had crouched down in front of John and, despite the fact that he was feeling rather frantic, held the doctor's face in his hands and spoke with as much calm as he could muster. His mind raced to find a way to dislodge John from Sherlock's grip without causing the injured man any further harm. He had very nearly settled on a tactic (a late addition to his list of Ways to Save John Watson, number 108: _Suffocate Sherlock Holmes_. He could see that one having multiple applications, honestly), when John, nearing the end of his pain and oxygen deprivation endurance, attempted to plead with the comatose Sherlock one more time.

All he could summon was a whimper.

So, John Watson whimpered.

It was weak, and broken, and terrified.

Greg's heart lurched at the sound.

Small as it was, there was urgency in the plea that found its way through Sherlock's hibernation and forced his mind to resurface. _John whimpered_.

John.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He stared up at the odd angle of John's face, vision bleary with sleep. _Focus. FOCUS._ John's eyes were screwed tight shut. _Tense, not asleep._ Below him, Sherlock could hear John's heart racing. _Too fast. Why is John's pulse so high?_ He could feel the too rapid, too shallow rise and fall of John's chest. _Breathe, John._

"John?"

No response. Just breathing. Almost as if all of John's effort was in that one action.

Oh God.

 _OH God. John._

"Slowly now, Sherlock," Lestrade instructed. He placed a firm hand on each of Sherlock's arms, and urged him to release the grip he had on John.

 _OH GOD._

Ignoring Lestrade's pleas, Sherlock scrambled hard away from John, to the far end of the couch, until he was able to perch on the opposite arm rest.

"God, Sherlock! What the..." Lestrade was ready to tear into the clearly shaken man when John suddenly groaned in agony and lurched forward. Lestrade's hands were quickly out, gently supporting his friend. "John? John. C'mon mate." John's breathing had slowed down, but was still too shallow. Greg checked for a pulse. Entirely too weak. With a shout and string of curses, Greg tried once more to rouse the now limp man. The only response to the outburst was from a stunned Mrs. Hudson, who, having heard the commotion had rushed upstairs to check on her boys.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, what is the meaning of this?" The diminutive landlady stormed up to Greg's back, prepared to give him a piece of her mind, but was stopped short. "Oh! Oh dear. John! Sherlock? Sherlock, what's happened?" She turned fear filled eyes to the consulting detective.

Still balanced precariously on the arm rest, Sherlock had drawn his knees up, and sat clutching a pillow to his chest. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, and tears rimmed his eyes. "I..." with a sob he stumbled from the room and disappeared behind a slammed door.

"Son of a..." Greg caught Mrs. Hudson's eye, and sheepishly let the vulgarities drop with a murmured an apology. "I think John's in trouble, Mrs. H. I have to get him laid out flat. On the floor will be best... Just... Just in case." John was still breathing, but Greg had to prepare for anything... CPR included. "John's phone is right over there on the window sill, would you please ring 999? And... Uhm..."

"Don't worry, dear. I'll open the doors. You help John."

A sigh of relief, and Greg set to work. He scooped John off the couch, and gently laid him out flat on the floor. He placed a pillow under his friend's head, and then propped up his legs. Kneeling, Greg checked John's pulse once more, and then placed a hand on his chest just to feel the rise and fall. "C'mon John. You gotta wake up. I need you to breathe mate. CPR with those banged up ribs will hurt like hell, and I don't know if I can do that. Don't make me find out. Your pulse is still too low, John. And you're getting clammy. Don't you dare go into shock. Do you hear me, John Watson? You're the doctor here, you know what needs to happen." Greg grabbed a throw blanket from the couch, tucked it around John, and sat back on his heels to wait.

"I knew it was a bad idea for you to leave the hospital yesterday. God, John, you idiot. You know better than this." Greg had the distinct feeling he was being hawkishly watched. He didn't even turn around. "Sherlock, you decent? Mrs. H called for an ambulance."

"What were you talking about?" Sherlock's voice was low with a dangerous rumble. John had once called it his _murdery_ voice. As the one on the receiving end, Greg had to agree with the assessment.

Greg swore under his breath, and in an effort to deflect Sherlock's ire, he checked John's pulse again. "Oi, mate, that's not very encouraging. Come on John. I need you to respond to me, let me know you're in there. God, where is that ambulance?" His mind raced, he needed to get a rise out of John. Oh God. Number 109 was a really, really bad idea. With a quick look at the stairwell to ensure Mrs. Hudson wasn't nearby, Greg took a deep breath, and glanced to make certain Sherlock was watching him.

He was. Arms crossed. Glaring. Waiting impatiently for Greg to answer his question.

At least he was dressed.

"John, I'm sorry..." Greg whispered. He scooted back a little from his prone friend, leaned across him, and mercilessly pressed down on John's abused shoulder. The unconscious doctor gasped, taking in the deepest breath he'd managed in several minutes. There was barely time for the D.I. to locate a pulse before he heard Sherlock launch himself across the room. Fighting every natural impulse, he let himself go limp as the enraged Sherlock tackled him with a feral roar.

Startled, John inhaled deeply, and with a cough whispered "Sherlock?" He wrapped his left arm protectively across his abdomen.

Sherlock released Greg's throat. "Alright, John? Are you alright?" He untangled himself from Greg and knelt next to John's left shoulder. "John?" Taking John's left hand in his own left hand, he gingerly placed his right hand on John's forehead; the chill and pallor of the doctor's skin was more than a little unnerving. John opened his eyes and tried to focus on Sherlock's face. He furled his brow, and shook his head "no" ever so slightly.

"Ambulance is here, Sherlock," Greg grunted as he pushed himself up off the floor. He patted Sherlock's shoulder. "Nicely done, mate." The consulting detective looked up at him perplexed. "I'll explain later. Let the medics get in here."

Shrugging away from Greg's hand, Sherlock leaned down to John. "You promised me yesterday you weren't dying. I'm holding you to that, John Watson. Do you hear me? You tricked me into saying I love you once, I won't do it again."

John attempted a breathless laugh, and winced in pain. He freed his hand from Sherlock's and tried to push his friend away. "'M fine. Spleen. Easy."

"Hey Doc," a young medic stepped into the flat, ahead of two others bringing a gurney up the steps with practiced ease. Of course, this wasn't their first visit to 221b. A newbie followed them cautiously into the sitting room. "Mrs. H. was just telling us you've had a bit of bad luck. We're just gonna take you and let a doctor take a look okay?" John nodded weakly, and closed his eyes. "Okay, Doc, none of that now." He squatted next to John, and felt for a pulse. Maintaining his propriety, he kept his tone light and soothing, but worry crept into his eyes. "Mr. Hol... Sherlock, did he say what he thought the problem was?"

"Spleen. He had a bruised spleen, but he mentioned it just as you were coming in. Could be a rupture. Or a bleed. Oh God. _GOD._ I... John, please..." Sherlock stood abruptly, and stumbled back into Greg.

"Calm down, Sherlock. It's going to be okay. Let's let them get John squared away. You gather up anything you might need, and we'll follow them to the hospital. I'll even use the lights and sirens, yeah?" Greg turned Sherlock so he could look him in the eyes, and held him up by the shoulders. "Not your fault, you hear me? This is on that monster Spaulding. And to some degree, that bloody incompetent A & E doctor who let John convince him he was well enough to be released. But not you."

Sherlock really was a mess if _Lestrade_ knew what he was thinking.

With a quick nod, Sherlock silently looked around the room, grabbed John's backpack from the day before and shoved the John binder and laptop into it. As an after thought he added his own binder and the tin of Mrs. Hudson's scones. Greg smiled at that. Anything the dear lady made really did seem to have mystical restorative powers.

"Detective?" The young medic stood. "We going to Bart's? We need to move; we'll get him stabilized in the bus. If this is a bleed..."

Greg glanced at Sherlock, who looked altogether shattered. "Yes. Bart's. We'll follow. Do whatever you have to, okay? Just get him there." The other medics nodded and hustled out the door with John in tow. "Joe?" The young medic looked up from packing his kit. "The new guy, he was there wasn't he? At the shopping center yesterday? He's the one..."

Joe smiled, "If you're going to be introduced to the Doc for the first time, is there really any other way?" He grabbed his kit and dashed after the others.

"Mrs. Hudson, are you coming with?" Greg hadn't realized she'd followed the medics up. She sat quitely in John's chair, turning John's phone over and over in her hands.

"I think I'll stay here for now, dear. Tidy up a bit maybe." Her face was etched with worry, but she turned to Sherlock with a smile. "Don't you worry, Sherlock. John's strong. He'll be right as rain soon enough. Try not to fret too much..." She was cut short when Sherlock stooped down to kiss her cheek and wrap her in a tight embrace. "Right, off you two go now. Go look after our John." Mrs. Hudson handed Sherlock John's mobile, and patted his back, urging him toward the door.

Ducking down, Greg placed his own kiss on her cheek. "I'm sorry about the tea, Mrs. Hudson. I'll stop by later and clean it up."

"Don't give it a second thought, dear. You can do it tomorrow." She winked up at him and patted his hand. Were those tears in her eyes? "Thank you Greg. I don't know how you do it, but you just keep saving my boys."

Greg cleared his throat, and blinked back his own emotions. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

 **Wednesday, 6 May, 2015**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **Patient Room: Watson, John H.**

"Watson, you bloody well are the worst patient I've ever had. What on God's green earth were you thinking?" Doctor Matt MacGregor burst into John's hospital room with an unexpected jolt of energy. His light framed, low backed wheelchair made it possible for him to get directly up next to the right side of the bed as he glanced over John's chart. "Seriously John, what kind of an idiot refuses to be admitted with all of... this..." He waved his hand to indicate John's general poor condition. "And you being a doctor," he tsk'd. "No wonder I'm stuck in this chair."

"Oi! Watch it, _Doctor_ , that's no way to speak to the weak and infirm," Greg winked. "Matt, how are you?" He stood and shook the doctor's hand.

"Greg," Matt grinned. "I'd be better if the good doctor would at least make an effort to act like he doesn't have a death wish."

"I hate you both. You know that, right?" John made a valiant effort to appear hurt. "Jerks." With that he laughed, but only briefly, as the exertion was too much for his incision, and gave way to a hastily strung together curse laden diatribe. He pressed a pillow into his side and groaned.

"I fail to see the humor in this situation. John was brutally attacked, and as a result has had to have his spleen removed," Sherlock condescended. His efforts to appear detached and calculating thwarted by the uncomfortable nature of the molded plastic chair he occupied and the concern creased across his brow.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes I presume? It's a pleasure, I've heard so much about you!" Doctor MacGregor thrust his hand out across John's bed eagerly.

"Doctor Matt MacGregor. I wish I could say the same. I only just learned of your existence two days ago, under rather unfavorable circumstances." The consulting detective gave the doctor a scrutinizing look, and then glared at John.

"Sherlock." Even in a hospital bed, broken, battered, and drugged, John's Captain Watson voice was one of very few things that could compel Sherlock Holmes to unwilling action. With a sigh, Sherlock warily shook the doctor's outstretched hand.

"Mr. Holmes..."

"Sherlock, please."

"Very well, please call me Matt. Sherlock, I... this is awkward... can you, would you, maybe, do the thing?" Matt grinned sheepishly. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

"Oh God," covering his face with both hands, Greg groaned.

John cursed under his breath. "You can't be serious."

"I'm sorry? 'Do the thing?'" Releasing the handshake, Sherlock shifted his chair closer to the bed and leveled a precision gaze in the doctor's direction.

"You know, the deductions? I was just..."

"Matt, just shut up. He's already started." Shaking his head, John rolled his eyes. "This is your own fault."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, interrupted only by the beeps and hums of the monitors keeping track of John's vitals.

Matt cleared his throat. "Ok, well..."

"You're younger than John, but only a couple of years. Two years. John mentioned that he knew you in university, that you were friends. I dare say there was a bit of idol worship on your part, at least to begin with." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Matt, who was blushing and avoiding eye contact with John.

John huffed a laugh. "Too right. God, I thought you were annoying the first few times we met."

Clearly pleased with himself, Sherlock smirked and continued. "You don't carry yourself with a military bearing. It's unlikely that there is much military history in your family, and that being the case, it was never your original intention to join the military. You joined after September 11th, but not out of some misguided duty to Queen and Country, in support of our allies. No, your reasons were personal. You lost someone. No military history, so not anyone at the Pentagon. Someone in New York, in the towers on that day. Someone close enough to impact you deeply. Not a sibling, you're clearly an only child. So a friend... No, a significant other. You lost your fiancée that day."

A hesitant nod and a stunned blink was all the response Matt could manage. Greg shifted uncomfortably and attempted to intercede on the doctor's behalf. "Ok, Sherlock, that's probably enough for now..."

"But there's still the matter of his injury. John mentioned they served a full tour together, which means his injury was sustained during his second tour. Was it an IED? You lost your left leg below the knee, but the reason you're in the chair is due to the spinal trauma. You wear a prosthesis purely for the sake of your own vanity."

"Sherlock." The consulting detective looked up at the warning in John's tone. "I think that'll do."

"Wow... Uhm, so," Matt stumbled over his words. "I was thinking you'd, I don't know, tell me what I'd had for breakfast, or I don't know, what my wife's favorite shade of lipstick is." He laughed nervously. "You're right John, that was remarkable. Really, brilliant Mr. Holmes. Spot on."

With a sideways glance at John's cautioning expression, Sherlock sighed. "My apologies for any discomfort, and for overstepping any socially constructed boundaries of propriety." His mouth quirked upwards slightly. "Also, turkey bacon with eggs scrambled poorly by your young daughter, and I believe your wife's current shade is Charmed."

Matt laughed outright. "Oh God. Right. No apologies necessary, I did bring this on myself." With that he glanced at his watch, "Ah, okay John, I have to get back downstairs. I've got patients who actually want to be taken care of waiting on me. I'll be back up later, and we'll talk about what course of antibiotics you want to try. And tomorrow you _are_ talking to the orthopedic doctor. I'm not happy with those x-rays of your clavicle, and he agrees. Since you're already in hospital, we're going to get it pieced back together. Don't look at me like that. I know you, and I know you won't sit still long enough to let it heal on its own."

Ignoring John's grumbling, Matt turned to leave. "Greg, once we get Captain Death-Wish here squared away, we need to get a pint. It's been too long. And Sherlock it was... a pleasure." And with a cheeky grin, he was gone as quickly as he had come.

"You sure can pick 'em, John." Greg's laugh was cut short when he caught sight of the intense way Sherlock was staring down his flat mate.

"Antibiotics?" Sherlock's tone was less concerned and more accusatory, which Greg thought inappropriate under the circumstances, though he refrained from pointing it out as he too was curious.

John inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. "The spleen is actually a pretty vital part of the human immune system. It acts as a filter, stores white blood cells and platelets for the body to use in fighting infections, and is the first line of defense against the bacteria that cause pneumonia and meningitis. Most people who have their spleen removed adjust over time, and their immune system functions just fine. But some patients are more susceptible to infection, and end up taking antibiotics for the rest of their lives. My immune system was pretty well destroyed after I got shot and ended up with those post-op infections. It'll take a while to be certain, but I'm probably going to be on antibiotics indefinitely."

Greg cursed and scrubbed his hand down his face. "God, John. What does that mean for..."

Sherlock stood abruptly with a growl, and kicked his chair back into the wall. He frowned when John winced at the outburst, and then again in pain from the sudden movement. As if frozen place, Sherlock stood beside John's hospital bed, sharp eyes deliberately assessing every centimeter of John's battered and broken form.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John carefully reached out his left hand and brushed his finger tips along his friend's arm. Sherlock wrenched his arm away from John's reach and his eyes went wide as he stepped back from the bed.

Fear.

What did Sherlock have to be afraid of?

"Sherlock, I don't understand. What's happening here?"

"You have to stay away from me John. I... I am not safe. I am going to get you killed. Or worse, I will end up killing you myself... with a mold sample, or something else equally as ridiculous. I can't. I cannot live with the fact that you are perpetually at risk in my presence. I did not spend two and a half years out there," Sherlock swept his arm broadly toward the window, gesturing to the world beyond the hospital walls, "just to come home and watch the life drain out of you simply because you refuse to see that I am a hazard. I'll arrange everything. You just... just stay here, where it's safe."

Stunned silent John and Greg watched as Sherlock shrugged into his great coat and spun around to sweep dramatically out of the room. Greg came to himself first, jumped from his seat, grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and twisted his arm up behind his back.

"You... What are you saying, Sherlock?" Greg's voice resonated with rage, though he kept his tone low. They were in a hospital after all.

Sherlock struggled against Greg and growled, "Isn't it _obvious_?" The two were poised to start throwing punches when a screaming alarm sounded and two nurses charged into the room.

One nurse dealt with the alarm on the heart monitor then fastened an oxygen mask onto John, as the other checked his pulse and took his blood pressure.

"Doctor Watson? John, are you in pain? Your heart rate got a little high there, and it seems like you were having some trouble breathing. Is it your ribs? I'm going to check your incision now, okay?" One of the nurses cooed over John as her hands flitted quickly from his wrist to his side. She moved quickly, and kept talking in soothing tones. John's breathing evened out, and his heart slowed noticeably as she worked. "Everything looks okay. Feeling better?" John nodded weakly. Normally he would have smiled, but Sherlock noted he didn't even attempt it. "We'll leave the oxygen on for a bit longer. I'm going to go fetch you some _good_ tea, not that swamp water they serve down in the kitchen, and be back in a few minutes, yeah?"

As the nurses moved to step out of the room, the one who had been speaking to John stopped in front of Sherlock and Greg (who still had Sherlock's arm pinned behind his back). She was tiny. Adorable even, but for the fierceness that burned in her eyes. "I don't know what you two are on about, but if it doesn't end _right now_ ," she grabbed Sherlock's lapel with her right hand, and pointed her left index finger directly in Greg's face, "I will personally drag the both of you out of here." Standing a little taller, she looked Sherlock directly in the eyes. "I don't care _who_ your brother is." She turned on her heel and stormed from the room, the other nurse rushed after her, wide eyed and slightly in awe.

Sherlock shoved Greg off of him, and the two men practically tripped over each other as they moved toward John's bedside.

"John, I..." Sherlock stopped short when John held up his left hand to silence him.

"No. _No._ Greg, get him out of here. Both of you. Just get out. I need to..." John blinked a few times in an effort to keep tears at bay. He refused to look at Sherlock. "God. You _idiot._ Just, go!"

When John's petite protector returned with his tea fifteen minutes later, she was greeted by a truly pathetic sight. The doctor's two friends were moping dejectedly outside his room. The angry silver haired one had slumped into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, face buried in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. The intense, kind of scary, tall one was pacing furiously up and down the hall, fingers from both hands pressed to his mouth, and he was muttering nonsense to himself.

"I see you two decided to let him finally get some rest," she stated coolly as she reached for the door handle.

The silver haired one mumbled something unintelligible into his hands. She shrugged and looked to the tall one who sighed and flopped into one of the chairs.

"He said John kicked us out."

"Well, okay then." She genuinely tried not to smile. Really, she did.

The attempt was not successful. She quickly ducked into John's room to avoid the loathing glares from the two men in the hall.

Mere moments later she returned to the hall, and stood, arms crossed over her chest, in front of Doctor Watson's friends. "He says you can both go back in now. _BUT,_ there is one condition. No talking. Go in and sit down. Greg? You sit in the chair on his right side. Sherlock is it? Left side." She looked from one to the other. "No. Talking." They looked up at her sheepishly. "Well, go on! He actually wants to see you, don't keep him waiting. Off you go!" She pointed to the door.

Without so much as a sigh the two men slunk into the room like thoroughly scolded children. John was propped sitting nearly all the way up in his bed, sipping his tea. His laptop was set up on the table across his lap.

"Sit." He commanded.

Silent compliance.

John smirked and looked at Greg. "You were here for this. Take it as a reminder. And no interrupting." Greg blinked in confusion.

"And _you._ " John turned on Sherlock, who flinched (to John's delight) in response. "You've already seen this, but you're going to watch it again, and I'm going to explain it. And you will not interrupt. When I'm done, and _only_ then, I want you say to me what you said earlier."

A look of sheer horror passed across Sherlock's face unchecked.

John pressed play.

* * *

 **CCTV Footage**  
 **04/05/15**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **External Camera C**  
 **Rooftop**

John forced the door to the roof open. He had to stop and remind himself not to press in with his right shoulder.

He should have worn the sling. He knew better.

Sliding his backpack off his left shoulder, John paused and glanced around the rooftop.

Huh.

This was his first time on the roof completely sober, and he had to admit, he was underwhelmed. Of course, past memories were tinted with the likes of sorrow, anguish, and despair. In his mind, the roof had taken on an ominous life of its own when he had been looking for answers, or looking for an escape. Now that the reason for those searches was sleeping safe and sound on the couch in the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, the rooftop seemed perfectly innocuous.

Dull even.

He supposed he could understand the symbolism when considering _why_ Moriarty had chosen the roof of St. Bart's for his end game. But honestly. The place was just so... plain. So ordinary. Common.

Oh. _OH._

Of course. It was a game after all.

Let's play Prove Sherlock is Dull.

John growled and walked with determination to the spot where Moriarty had bled out. He stared at the spot for a moment, and then glanced up at the sky. Everything about this spot was unremarkable.

With the exception that James Moriarty had attempted to destroy Sherlock from Right. Here.

John spat on the spot.

"You came so close. You _almost_ won. You got to me. It's true. I almost gave up. So many times. And then you would have won, because you really would have burned the heart out of him then, yeah? He would have come home to nothing, and that would have been a fate worse than death. And you would have been the ultimate victor. But we did it. Together. Greg and I here, and Sherlock out there. We stayed alive, and we kept Mrs. Hudson safe, and we're here, and you're... You're where ever the hell it is monsters like you go."

John spat once more. "Good riddance."

Turning with the the intention of never seeing that offensive spot again, John marched to the edge of the roof. Running his hand along the ledge, he looked out over the city as he slowly approached the spot.

Sherlock's spot.

The Altar of Sherlock he had drunkenly named it. _God_ , he should really never be allowed to drink.

He stopped at the spot, dropped the backpack onto the roof, and leaned over to look down at the pavement below. Overcome by a brief rush of vertigo, John sat down quickly on the ledge and covered his face with his hands. "God, I'm a bloody idiot." He had come so close to ruining everything from this very spot.

But he hadn't ruined it.

He was alive.

Greg was alive.

Sherlock, that bloody brilliant, infuriating, madman was alive.

John smiled to himself and turned gingerly to swing his legs over the edge of the roof. He hoped Greg was near, his shoulder was truly aching now. He wanted to massage the tender joint, but just in case Mycroft was watching, or worse yet, Sherlock, he'd not give them the satisfaction of knowing he was in pain.

Maybe he should have gone to the hospital last night.

No point in letting Sherlock think he was right more often than necessary.

God, Greg. Hurry up.

As if on cue, the door to the rooftop creaked open.

"About time!" John shouted without even looking back. Greg grunted in response as he walked to Moriarty's spot. He spat once, paused, uttered a well thought out, if somewhat shocking, vulgar diatribe, and spat once more.

"That was obscenely _poetic_ ," John nodded approvingly.

Greg sat two coffees down on the ledge to John's left and placed his hand on John's shoulder. "Glad you liked it. It wasn't Shakespeare by any means, but it just felt appropriate."

"Oh my God, enough with the Shakespeare!" John giggled. Greg winked and grinned, then took his place on the ledge to John's left. They looked out over the city, glowing in the sunrise, and just enjoyed the beauty of it all for the very first time.

"So, I stopped off to see Molly before I came up. Apparently some jerk made her cry earlier," Greg smiled broadly as he handed John a coffee and then took a sip of his own.

John laughed, but then exhaled deeply. "Greg, I need to apologize to you."

"No, don't." Greg cut him off. "I was pissed at her too, you know. Sherlock comes waltzing back into our lives like nothing happened, and oh, by the way, Big Brother and sweet innocent Molly Hooper knew the whole time." Greg scoffed bitterly. "God, I almost walked away. I don't think I ever told you that." John shook his head no. "I actually just slept in my office the first few nights. Showered in the locker room at the gym. Didn't even go home."

Greg shrugged."I was ready to call off the wedding, and that be the end of it. It hurt so badly, you know? I mean, all the times she just let me fall apart in front of her. All she had to do was say one word. And you. God, you were a mess John. We both were, but Judas Priest, there was a while that I really thought you had lost your mind. And there we were, you and me, grasping, clawing, hanging on for dear life, and she knew the truth the whole time. She knew, and she left us there to come unglued. Then you said what you said to her, about being a fraud like Moriarty. And I couldn't be angry with you. Of course not. I agreed with you. But that really crushed her, just, decimated her heart. She said she would understand if I left. She would even understand if you never spoke to her again. But the fact that you, compassionate, forgiving John Watson thought that she was anything like Moriarty? It destroyed her."

John hung his head in shame.

Greg sipped his coffee. "I took a long hard look at her then, and I realized how hard that must have been. To keep that secret. Watching her fiancée and her best friend falling apart, and knowing the one thing that could save them from themselves, but not being able to tell them. Having to live with the fact that if anyone found out, it could get Sherlock killed. Or possibly even the both of us and Mrs. Hudson. And I realized we were both hurting, in our own ways, but it would be easier to pick up the pieces together. So... I went home."

He smiled at John. "You don't owe me an apology, mate. You don't have to explain a thing. But thank you for talking to her, I know it wasn't easy."

"I missed her," John sighed. "I missed us. It was hard to imagine a way you and I could stay close after the wedding if I didn't make it right. And I knew I'd hurt her far worse than she'd hurt me. She didn't deserve that. Besides, Sherlock's been making my life miserable since I've been avoiding Molly and the lab. So, two birds, one stone I guess."

Greg laughed and lifted his coffee cup. "Cheers to that, mate."

"Cheers," John laughed in return. "God, what a mess." He set his coffee down, and dug around in his backpack. "Here, I got you something, for old time's sake. And after all that, you might need them." He handed Greg a pack of cigarettes and a small box of matches.

"Doctor Watson, I am shocked! You do realize these things will kill me right?" Greg laughed as he shook the pack. "You joining me? Sure, you are, just this one time, right?" Greg grinned and expertly lit two cigarettes at once. He handed one to John as he puffed away on his own and hummed in delight.

John held his up, and Greg followed suit. "To Sherlock... If it wasn't for him, I never would have met you, Greg."

"We few, we happy few." Greg smirked when John groaned.

Taking a deep drag off his cigarette, Greg nodded at John who hesitantly lifted his own cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply.

A little too deeply.

His bruised ribs made themselves known, and John choked on the inhaled smoke. The more he coughed the more his ribs ached. He pressed his right arm across his chest, despite the agony of his shoulder.

It didn't help that Greg found his plight to be hilarious.

John snuffed out the cigarette and flicked the butt at Greg. "Sod off," he choked out.

Greg just laughed even harder.

"Oh, just shut up and light me another one!" John grumbled.

Choking on a laugh, Greg shook his head in disbelief. "Feeling stubborn today, are we?" John narrowed his eyes at his friend. Greg just grinned and lit them both another cigarette; he puffed away expertly at his.

John tried to keep up. He really did. But for those cursed ribs. A flash of pain and another coughing fit. John turned to warn Greg off from mocking him when the unthinkable happened. That particular coughing fit was jarring enough that John lost his grip on the lit cigarette, and it tumbled from his hand, over the side of the building, and down towards the ground.

"Oh God," he leaned over as far as he dared, to watch its descent. "Oh God." He looked over at Greg, panic in his eyes. Greg stared back at John wide eyed.

With a glance to the ground below, Greg shouted "Fore!" John snorted. The two men dissolved into hysterics.

"Fore?" John snickered and declined when Greg offered him another cigarette. "I think I'm not meant to smoke. I'll stick with the coffee."

There was more companionable silence as Greg smoked away to his heart's content.

He had quit. _Really._ But this was tradition, yeah? And he couldn't very well decline. John had bought them as gift. It wouldn't have been proper to turn them down.

"Maybe this goes without saying, but... Don't tell Molly, yeah? She'll be none too happy." Greg held his cigarette up and inspected it closely.

"Hmm, quit again have you? Just, very well done with that." John's smile was devious. "I did only just start talking to her. I can't make any promises about what might come up."

"Oi! Tell her about this, and I'll tell her about last night at that pub." Greg cast a sidelong glance at John. "Have to admit, I didn't know which was worse. Seeing you in pain, your arm just kind of dangling there unnaturally, or me encouraging you to finish your third shot. How long's it been?"

"Last night was my first drink in eleven months. And I haven't missed it. I didn't miss the loss of control, and I definitely don't miss the hang overs. Thankfully last night it basically just knocked me out, and I didn't get stupid." John looked thoughtfully down at his coffee. "Thanks for this," he held the cup up to Greg. "I know in the past..."

"In the past we were in mourning. Trying to forget."

John hummed in agreement. "Think I'm going to just forgo the alcohol from now on, except for the rare special occasions."

"Such as medical emergencies?" Greg playfully suggested.

"I was thinking _weddings_ , but sure, okay. Medical emergencies too." With a laugh John shook his head. "Though I'd be okay with avoiding those altogether as often as possible!"

"Speaking of..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm going down to see Matt when we're done here."

"So is that... Is that why you're dressed like a librarian?" Greg barked a laugh when he noticed the embarrassed blush spread across John's face. "I mean, a tie? C'mon, this is Matt."

With a roll of his eyes, John scoffed. "God no. I have a meeting with Mycroft and a lawyer later. I think this will be the last one, and we'll have Sherlock's estate settled, and he'll be listed among the living again. And it only took six months." He shook his head in disgust.

Greg nodded his head in appreciation. "That is... Wow. I hope Sherlock appreciates the effort you've put into this." All it took was one sideways glance, and the two men burst into laughter once more.

"Right." John pressed his arm across his ribs and tried to catch his breath. "God, Greg. Sherlock's alive. He's actually alive." John closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Some days I still wake up, and I've forgotten, you know? I wake up and it's still so raw, and the grief is still there. And it would be easier to give up than to get out of bed. I feel like I should be concerned about that, yeah? That I shouldn't still be waking up with those emotions. But I'm just not, because eventually I remember. Or I call you and you talk me through it." He shrugged his left shoulder. "Maybe this is just my normal now."

"Just never forget that you can call me _any_ time, yeah?" Greg turned slightly, to make eye contact with John. "But, have you talked to your therapist about this at all?"

"Ah," John ducked his head and cleared his throat. "I haven't been to see her for a few months now."

"John." Greg growled in exasperation.

"I was going. Every week. Even after Sherlock came back. _Especially_ then. God, I was such a mess. But then something odd started happening. No, not odd. _Infuriating_. God. As a doctor and a patient, I should have reported it. Still might." John fidgeted with his tie.

"From the very beginning, I knew Mycroft was somehow getting copies of notes from some of my sessions. I still don't know _how_ he got them. He used the information for intimidation more than anything else." John swallowed the last of his coffee.

"God. Pompous son of a..." Greg uttered a string of curses.

John huffed a laugh. "He left it alone after Sherlock... _left._ Never mentioned anything to me. Though, I suspect the threat assessment job at MI6 was an attempt to distract me from... well, _everything_ during that time."

"You still doing that?"

"Only when I've the time. Now Sherlock's back, not as often. It's fascinating really, even if my security clearance is the lowest there is." John laughed. "Did you know there are at least four security check points to get into the actual inner workings of the building? Well, four that I know of, anyway. My clearance only allows me past the first one. I'm not kidding. My _office_ is basically a shared broom closet. Granted, it's a very, _very_ nice broom closet with the most advanced technological capabilities. I caught a glimpse past the second barrier once by accident. Mycroft himself debriefed me for four hours after that."

Greg shook his head in disbelief.

"Anyway, it was actually there, in my broom closet, that I first noticed something was amiss. Sherlock had been back about three weeks. I had complained to the therapist that little naggy things that Sherlock use to always do _before_ he left, things I had just gotten use to, were really just starting to wear me down. We'd had a massive shouting match over the fact that he threw out a new box of chai tea I'd just bought. He said the spice contaminated the other teas in the cupboard, and that he only likes Darjeeling, so he didn't know why I would even bother with anything else." John sighed in frustration. "In the past I had always just given in, but after two and a half years, I didn't feel that having my own tea in the cupboard was asking too much. The next day. The _very_ next day, next to the electric kettle in my broom closet, there was a brand new box of chai."

"Wait. Hold on a second, are you suggesting..." Greg's look was incredulous.

"Not just suggesting. I _proved_ it." John grinned an evil shark-like grin. "It started out small, you know. And I always made sure it was something that would make sense for Sherlock to have ruined for me. My favorite ink pen broken to bits? A whole supply of them would show up in the desk drawer. One of Sherlock's experiments ruined my leftovers from Angelo's? Lunch would be catered my next time in." John giggled. "Sherlock intentionally ruined one of my cardigans, and I swear to God, on my next paycheck I had a bonus for the amount of a new sweater. Now, where I buy clothes and Mycroft buys clothes varies a great deal, so the amount was quite a bit more than what was actually needed. Not that I complained about that. But it set me to thinking, money didn't really seem to be an issue."

"Oh God, John. _What did you do?_ " Greg's eyes glistened with excitement.

"Remember that crappy old watch I use to wear?" John cleared his throat. "It was about four months ago. There was that case out in the country. The suspect and I both ended up in that swamp because Sherlock couldn't be bothered to take two steps to the left? Hmm, yeah. I... I uhm _may_ have exaggerated the watch's value to me. I mean, my therapist had a field day with the story I told her. And _most_ of it was true. It belonged to a guy in my unit. He got hit by shrapnel during an ambush. I did everything I could to save him, kept him alive for several days, but he really needed to be moved to an actual hospital. We just couldn't get through the enemy fire in time. As he lay there dying, I did everything I could to keep his mind off the inevitable. Apparently no one had ever paid him any real attention. To thank me, he took the watch off his wrist and gave it to me. I had a watch, but it was my granddad's so I hardly wore it. Just to humor him, I put the watch on. I figured I'd send it home with his effects. Well, it all went to hell after that. He died, we were under constant fire, and not too long after that, I got shot."

"So, you inherited the guy's watch?"

"I did. But I didn't know him at all. And maybe it sounds heartless, but besides trying to patch him up, I had no connection to him whatsoever. I worked on so many people over just a course of a few days, most of them are all just blurred together in my mind. I only remembered this kid because of the watch." John frowned. "God, I sound like a terrible person. But it really didn't mean anything to me at all. I didn't feel right pawning it though, so I kept it, and once I started going on cases with Sherlock and working at the clinic, I'd wear it rather than ruin my good one."

Scrubbing his hand down his face, John continued. "I can't actually believe I did this. I just, I wanted to prove a point, even if it was just to myself. So... I whined to my therapist that the watch given to me by a fallen comrade, on his death bed, had been completely ruined while doing the leg work on a case for Sherlock." John screwed up his face as if he were about to burst into tears. His voice wavered ever so slightly. "It wasn't worth much, but it was valuable to me. And now it's gone." He sniffed for effect, then dropped the act, assuming once more his devious grin.

Greg nearly choked on his coffee at the sudden switch. "That was bloody brilliant. God, John."

The doctor laughed. "The next time I saw Mycroft, he presented me with a gift wrapped box, and said it was just a token to thank me for the hours of hard work I had put in."

"A watch?"

"Not just _a_ watch..." John pulled back the sleeve covering his right wrist. The watch was platinum, and Greg was pretty sure those were diamonds. _Diamonds_. Plural. There were all manner of dials and gauges. It was beautiful in all of its garish opulence, and would have suited the likes of Mycroft Holmes very well. Greg knew it to be worth several thousand. And it was the very definition of ludicrous adorning the wrist of John Watson.

"Oh God. John, oh my God..." Greg started laughing, and the longer he looked at the watch, the funnier it got. He was in tears, and practically convulsing in laughter.

"You understand why I can never go back to that therapist ever again, right?" John giggled.

Greg doubled over in laughter. "You manipulative genius. God, you're my hero!" At that, he slapped John on the back in a sign of appreciation. Unfortunately for John, the bruised ribs and deep tissue bruising left by a pool cue across his back, did _not_ share Greg's enthusiasm. Before he could stop himself, John winced and cried out in pain.

Greg cursed. "I'm sorry, John. I forgot about your back. I'm so sorry. I think it's time we get you downstairs, yeah?" Greg pointed behind him at the door.

"Yeah, okay," John wheezed. "Hang on just a minute though." John reached behind him into his backpack and dug out an old ratty envelope and a yellow legal pad. Recognition flashed in Greg's eyes. John pulled the tattered paper from the envelope and read over it. He handed it to Greg. "Our _agreement._ "

Greg nodded and read over it. Together they turned to face one another, each swinging one leg back over the ledge, to place a foot flat on the roof. They looked at each other almost sheepishly.

Ridiculous.

Utter nonsense after all they'd been through together.

Put each other through.

"I uhm," John pulled a pen from his pocket. "I think we should make a new one. Less... suicide, more support."

"Agreed. I think, no matter what, at least twice a month we meet. Doesn't really matter where. My place, Baker Street, a pub, anywhere. Just you and me. No wives... and no consulting detectives. Just to debrief, and decompress." Greg tipped a cigarette out of the pack, but instead of lighting it he tapped it against his palm as he thought.

"Good. What about a 24/7 phone policy? Call or text, no matter the day or time. No matter what. Good news. Bad news. Requests for help. Or for back up. Kind of goes without saying, but we'll have it in writing." John scribbled on the legal pad as he spoke.

"Definitely. What if," Greg hesitated. John glanced up and furled his brow at the frown on Greg's face. "Look, John. We've been through so much the past couple of years. I don't have any blood siblings. I've only just got you, you know? You're my brother. The only brother I've ever had."

"Same. I've got Harry, but no one's pretending that's a functioning relationship. You're my brother too. Only one I've got." John nodded confirmation.

"Good, okay. So, we agree, brothers no matter what. But, John, you... Well, you're my best friend. One of the best I've ever had. And I _know_ you feel the same, but I also know that Sherlock is different. I know you two aren't _together_ , and that's not how your relationship works. But I do know you're _his_ best friend, and that he is yours. And I'm okay with that... I just... What if, I don't know, do you think he'd want to be a brother too? I mean, I know he's got Mycroft, but that's about as rubbish as any family relationship I've ever seen."

John sat up and looked Greg straight in the eyes. "You are amazing. I think that is perfect. Maybe he won't be interested, and that's okay too. But do we agree, as far as either of us is concerned, Greg Lestrade, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes are brothers? A true _band_ of brothers, and not just our little duo?"

"If you think so, then yeah, of course." Greg smiled. "You do realize that makes you the middle child though, and everyone ignores the middle child." He winked.

"Shut it, you." John laughed. "Okay, good. Good. I think I've got just one more thing then. I say we don't meet up here on May 4th anymore. No reason to. But, from here on out, if anything happens to one of ours, God forbid, we meet up here that day. We bring the scotch, and the cigarettes, and anyone else who needs to mourn with us, and meet up here to help each other through it. But then that's it. No memorializing it up here, no suicide pacts or insane threats. Just a few hours of supporting each other before we have to face the world."

"Brilliant. This will be where we come to regroup and prepare for the next step. Yes, we'll do that." Greg continued tapping the cigarette on his palm thoughtfully as John read over all he had written down. John handed the pad over to Greg, who read through it as well. "Yes, I think that'll do. I like this one a lot better than the last one. Where do I sign?" John handed over the pen, and motioned to the bottom of the page. Greg signed his name, then John did the same and dated it. He tore the page from the pad, folded it gingerly, and placed in the old worn envelope.

"I think we're through with that one," John motioned to the old suicide pact. "I know _I_ never want to see it again."

Greg hummed his consent. He lit the cigarette he'd been toying with, and held it up once more in tribute.

" _This story shall the good man teach his son;_  
 _And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,_  
 _From this day to the ending of the world,_  
 _But we in it shall be remembered-_  
 _We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;_  
 _For he to-day that sheds his blood with me_  
 _Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,_  
 _This day shall gentle his condition;_  
 _And gentlemen in England now-a-bed_  
 _Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here_ "

"Hmm. Yeah. Okay, Shakespeare, I'll allow it. _This time_." John grinned, but couldn't hide the emotion in his voice. " _Idiot._ "

"Cheers, mate." Greg held their old agreement to the tip of the cigarette. The page was so worn it burned up quickly, and together they watched the embers float away on the breeze. "Only one thing left to do now." The friends grinned at one another, each spitting into their left hands, clasped hands and shook heartily. John grinned his devilish grin and motioned in the direction of the CCTV camera with his head. They released their handshake and turned to the camera, and with much gusto, flipped it off.

The resulting laughter was uninhibited, raucous, and liberating.

It also caused John no small amount of pain. "Okay, I think it's definitely time to go downstairs now." He pressed his right arm around his ribs as he tried unsuccessfully to quell his own laughter.

Greg's phone rang. He fished it from his pocket, checked the caller ID, and went suddenly stiff. "It's Sherlock! Should I tell him you're here?" John shook his head no with a grin, so Greg answered the call. "This is Lestrade."

John chose that moment to make a lewd gesture.

Greg coughed and sputtered in an attempt to cover his laughter, "Oh, uh, Sherlock..." He cleared his throat and assumed a more serious tone. "No. Ah, no, not yet."

"What does he want?" John whispered like a petulant child. "Greg. Greg. Greg. What does he want?"

Greg held the phone against his chest, to muffle the sound and whispered, "Would you shut up? You're the one who said not to tell him you're here. God." He place the mobile back to his ear, but couldn't help giggling at John's ridiculous behavior.

"Look Sherlock, I'm in a.. a meeting. You and John come by the Yard later and we'll go over everything."

John picked up Greg's partial cup of coffee, popped off the lid, took a big drink of the now tepid coffee, and spit the entire mouthful back into the cup in disgust, making the most childish noises he could think of as he did it.

"Oh my God, knock it off!" Greg whispered. "Sherlock, I really have to go. Just..." Greg was very near losing his composure altogether and dissolving into a fit of giggles. "Just come by later, okay? And Sherlock, be nice to John, today especially. He's in a... fragile state."

"Hey! Take it back!" John whispered fiercely, grabbing for Greg's phone.

Greg pressed the phone to his chest and swatted John's hands away. "Knock. It. Off!"

"You want middle child, I'll show you middle child." John crossed his arms over his chest. Just as Greg rolled his eyes and was about to lift the mobile back to his ear, John punched him hard on the arm.

"OW!" Greg narrowed his eyes at John and spoke quickly into the phone. "Later, yeah?" He hung up before he heard Sherlock's response. "What is your problem? Oh wait.. He's texting now." Greg exchanged a few texts with Sherlock and frowned. "Does he really not know what today is?"

John stood, knees a bit wobbly from the laughter, and gathered up his backpack. "Doubt it. I'm sure he remembers that it all happened. And certain specifics he considers vital. But the actual date? He probably deleted it. I'm sure he'll figure it out." Without thinking about it John moved to sling the pack over his right shoulder. "Oh! Son of a..." John groaned in pain. "God, I keep forgetting."

"Okay," Greg stood. "Let's get you downstairs before you do something _really_ stupid."

* * *

 **Wednesday, 6 May, 2015**  
 **St Bart's Hospital**  
 **Patient Room: Watson, John H.**

John clicked the laptop closed. "So."

"Why did we watch this?" Greg asked, confusion evident on his face.

"Mycroft sent this to Sherlock on Monday. He watched us on the roof, but had no idea why were there, or any of the context. In the interest of full disclosure, and the hope that he'll be fully honest with me in the future, I showed Sherlock the other times you and I met up there too." John looked at Greg with uncertainty. "I should have asked you first."

"No, no it's... Wait, Mycroft had them all on video? Did any of them have sound?" Greg ran his hand back over his hair.

"What _doesn't_ Mycroft have on video? And no, I had to narrate them all."

"God, John. No wonder you two were an emotional mess. You _should_ have called me. I would've helped." Greg scooted his chair around so he could face John more directly. "You don't have to do these things alone, yeah? Brothers. We help each other."

"I know, but, it's something _I_ needed to do with Sherlock. He wanted to know what I went through, and I needed to be the one to tell him. Does that make sense? Is it okay?"

"Of course it's okay, John. God, I understand. Just like I had to tell Molly. I get it. I'm just sorry you had to see all of that, and relive it all. That must have been awful." Greg cursed. He looked over at Sherlock and the tension in his face eased. "John, I think you need to talk to Sherlock now. I'll be right here."

With a nod, John turned to look at Sherlock on his left side. The consulting detective had somehow managed to pull his knees to his chest, placing his heels on the lip of the seat of the molded plastic chair, and had wrapped his great coat tight around him. His collar was up, and his forehead was resting on his knees, completely obscuring his face.

"Sherlock? Will you scoot closer? I want to talk to you now." John glanced back at Greg, and assumed his soothing doctor voice. "Please, Sherlock, can I at least see your eyes, so I know you're listening to me?"

From within the confines of his great coat, Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.

"I... Sherlock, I couldn't hear you at all. I have no idea what you said." John sighed, making every effort to suppress anything even resembling frustration. "Help me out here."

Sherlock reluctantly unfolded himself from his cocoon, stretched his legs out in front of him, shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked up at John with a defeated sigh.

Every bit the petulant three year old.

"I know it's dull, but would you mind repeating yourself just this once?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I don't understand. Why? Why would you two want _me_ to be your brother? You both know me. I am, by all accounts, a horrible human being. And of all the people I have been horrible to, you two, and you especially John, have had to take the worst of it."

Opening his eyes to reveal tears ready to spill at any moment, Sherlock pulled his chair right up next to John's bed. With some hesitation he reached out to take John's left hand, battered, bruised and braced though it was, in his own. He paused, and John covered the distance for him.

"Why?" Sherlock looked up at John. A few errant tears spilled over and ran down his face unchecked. He glanced over to Lestrade. "I call you by the wrong name on purpose. Did you know that?"

Greg huffed a laugh. "I had my suspicions."

"See, you know how I am. _What_ I am. So, why? Why would you want me?"

"I can't speak for Greg," John smiled, "but I want you to be my brother for the same reasons you gave me two days ago. Remember? We're Sherlock and John. We're better together, and we're more than any _label_ anyone could ever give us. It's not romantic love, but it's love. And I do, Sherlock, I love you. You're my best friend, and my brother."

"Look Sherlock, you and I, we don't have the relationship you and John have. Or that John and I have. But do you remember all those years ago, when we worked together, you and I, to get you out of the mess you'd got yourself in? You were as good as dead, but for some reason, you let me help you. We may pick at each other, and intentionally agitate one another, but to me, you will always, _always_ be the one who _let_ me help you. I've offered it to so many, and they've rejected it, or walked away. But you let me help you, and then you stayed. I don't understand it, but it's meant the world to me. And I may have failed you in the past, but I will spend the remainder of my days defending you. And John. We're in this together." Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock and then hung his head as if awaiting a verdict.

"I..." Sherlock worked his jaw as if he wanted to say something. Anything. But the words seemed to fail him.

"There is one condition, though." John whispered. Sherlock's head shot up and questioning eyes searched John's face. "You can never ask me to leave the way you did earlier. Not ever again. If you decide you'd rather part ways, that's fine. We'll discuss it. But please, don't ever do that again. Please." John's voice cracked, and he pulled his hand from Sherlock's to wipe his eyes.

"John," Sherlock groaned. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I understood what you _meant_ , Sherlock. Your intention was to express that you feel you are a detriment to me. But imagine being the one broken to pieces, just finding out that there are parts of me that are never going to be whole or well again, and then hearing _you_ say I am too fragile, and too weak, and it would be best if I just left. Because that's what it sounded like from this hospital bed. And you were so certain that was the right answer, you were ready to go take care of everything right then."

Sherlock groaned once more, covered his face with his hands, and laid his head down on the edge of John's bed.

"I thought my heart was literally breaking Sherlock. I'm in so much pain right now, but all I could feel was this gaping wound in my chest, and I didn't want those nurses to come in and help me. If you were asking me to leave, I would've rather just died right here. Do you understand? It almost killed me when you left. What do you think would happen if you asked me to leave and I believed the reason to be because I was too damaged or not good enough?"

"Always enough. Always, John." Sherlock sat up and scooted his chair nearer the head of the bed. He took John's hand once more. "Please don't go. I didn't really want you to. I thought you _needed_ to. But _I_ need you." He looked sheepishly at Lestrade. "I need you too... Greg."

John huffed a breathy laugh and Greg blinked in surprise.

"I would be honored to be counted as your brother. If you'll have me."


	6. 22 December, 2016

**PRESENT: Thursday, 22 December, 2016**

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? I'm on the tube. No signal!"

Silence. "...ary? Where are y..." Silence. "...ohn? Are you all r..."

"I just left the clinic, and I'm on my way to Baker Street now. If you need something, text me and I'll get it when I resurface." John didn't wait for a response before he disconnected the call. That it had rung through in the first place was no small miracle, but there really was no point in trying to continue the conversation.

Rubbing his thumb over the face of the mobile in his left hand, John drummed the fingers of his right hand on his knee.

Worrisome.

That was putting it mildly. Sherlock never called unless it was important.

 _Urgent._

It had sounded like he was asking after Mary, which wasn't all that unusual. What well and truly set him on edge was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had asked if he was all right. Unless he had evidence to the contrary, Sherlock seemed to operate under the general expectation that John was, in fact, all right.

Sherlock was seldom wrong. Not when it came to John. The same was true in the reverse of course, but Sherlock hadn't been the one to receive the package the day before.

* * *

 **YESTERDAY: Wednesday, 21 December, 2016**

John had brushed it off as an old military acquaintance playing a joke. It wasn't funny, but still. No reason for alarm.

Sherlock disagreed vehemently. John was in danger, and if John were actually being honest and not trying to hide behind his blasted soldier stoicism, he'd admit to the same.

Mary mused out loud that it seemed to her Sherlock and John always just knew instinctively when the other was in harm's way.

John supposed it was because they knew each other's habits and tendencies so well; Sherlock knew how John was likely to react to any given situation, and how others tended to react to John. John knew the same of Sherlock. Any variance would be glaringly obvious.

Sherlock had congratulated John on that valiant, though overly simplified, attempt to understand the process. He launched into a complex explanation of observational techniques, John's emotional state on the day in question, and the probability of threat in relation to environmental factors and the amount of time that had passed since the previous threat. Of course, one must also make allowance for the fact that risk increased with the addition of individuals to John's social hierarchy (exempli gratia: one Mary Morstan-Watson).

Mary laughed at them both for saying exactly the same thing, in their own unique ways, and called them idiots. John huffed and conceded; they really were being idiots. This whole matter was idiotic. Sherlock flashed a glare of frustration at John, then turned to Mary and pouted, fixing his precision _if-you're-so-smart-then-you-explain-it_ look on her.

Mary always obliged.

It was simple really, Mary reasoned. They were Sherlock and John. It was as if their connection was intuitive. They were meant to be soul mates (both men had lapsed into mock grossed-out-six-year-old mode with groans, exclamations of "blech," and horribly contorted faces), which did _not_ imply anything sexual or otherwise by any means. Theirs was a relationship built on mutual respect, trust, kinship, brotherhood, and love ( _oh, do calm down boys_ ). When a connection between two people is so strong, sometimes one just _knows_ what the other is in need of. And, if either of them cared to know, she was just fine with the fact that in their little trio, it was Sherlock and John who were the soul mates. She was just happy to be allowed in, to be a part of something bigger than any of them as individuals.

Add Greg and Molly (yes, yes, she supposed Mycroft had his merits as well), and it was an embarrassment of riches as far as Mary was concerned. But that was beside the point.

"My boys. You worry too much." Mary stood from her perch on the arm of John's chair. "I'll make tea, and then together we'll make a plan."

She leaned down, patted Sherlock's cheek tenderly and then kissed his cheek. There was genuine concern in his eyes as he looked past her at John. So distracted was he that he didn't even wipe the residual lip gloss off his cheek. Using the pad of her thumb, Mary did it for him. Sherlock disliked the manufactured citrus tang it left behind.

Mary turned and performed the same ritual on John. Pat, pat. Kiss on the cheek. Sometimes John would try to steal a kiss, and they would bump noses and giggle. He refrained. It seemed important that everyone in the room knew they were cared for equally, so he let Mary carry out her affectionate ministrations, though he smiled up at her with his eyes. John never wiped the lip gloss away. He liked the way the sunny hint of lemon reminded him of the brightness that was Mary.

When Mary returned with the tea, arranged with precision on the tray, she wasn't surprised to find the two men still sitting in silence. John was watching her, a lopsided, closed lip smile on his face. She smiled back as she handed him his mug. Sherlock sat stark still, staring in John's direction, but not seeing him as he was lost in thought, with three fingers of his left hand pressed to the spot where Mary had kissed his cheek.

"Sherlock?" Mary held his tea out to him. He was slow to respond, but eventually took the cup and nodded his thanks. Mary dropped a cushion from the couch on the floor between the two chairs and sat to the right of John's knees, leaning back on the arm of his chair.

"So, what does it all mean?" She indicated with a lift of her chin the padded envelope resting on Sherlock's knee.

"It's from a man I met in Afghanistan. An American. Marine." Here John reached across and picked up the envelope. "A Private First Class. His unit got pinned down by a car bomb. We were the closest medical unit, so they were brought to us for triage. He wasn't wounded fatally, just needed some stitches. Physically, he was clear to return to combat."

John paused, lost momentarily in the memories. Mary gently nudged his knee with her shoulder. "Right." He cleared his throat. "Mentally, that was another matter altogether. As the lead medical officer, I had to make a decision. The report I filed went directly to his commanding officer. And it wasn't good."

Very carefully John pulled the contents of the package out. There was a Christmas card. Standard glossy card stock. From a big name retailer. The image on the front was a ridiculous illustration of Father Christmas reclined in front of a fireplace, and the wall behind him was lined with the heads of all the reindeer mounted for display. Jolly Saint Nick was using the mounted head of Rudolph as a reading lamp.

"A hunting aficionado from Alabama. Pfc. Klein's weapon of choice was a 12 gauge shotgun. The U.S. Marine Corps allow for the use of shotguns in close combat, in urban settings. They aren't too effective at long range, but at close range they are very effective at stopping a target, and require some real skill." John held the card up and tapped the picture on the front.

"Small talk. That's how it started. I commented on his accent, asked him about home, his hobbies. Trying to distract him while I worked. He talked a lot about hunting, and how those skills carried over to being a Marine. And then he got..." With a shudder, John scrubbed his free hand over his face. "Klein was angry about the attack, of course. His unit had lost a few men, and several more were to be sent home because of their injuries. He figured it was his job to avenge them, and he was going to do it his way."

With a wary look to Sherlock, John continued. "His plan was to execute as many Afghan people as he could; men, women or children, they were all guilty as far as he was concerned. Close range shotgun blast, followed by field dressing - not the kind of field dressing an army medic does either, but the kind a wild game hunter employs, cutting the kill open bottom to top and removing all the organs to drain the blood - and then the mounting of heads."

Not much by way of criminal intent surprised Sherlock Holmes. To his credit, he was unable to completely mask the impact John's words had. There was true horror reflected in his eyes, and the corners of his mouth ticked downward in disgust.

For her part, Mary had blanched at the description, and leaned closely into John's calf. He couldn't see her face because she kept her head bowed to hide her response.

"I had to report it. He was subjected to mental evaluations, all of which he failed. He was medically discharged not too long after." John shrugged. "I never gave him a second thought. He only ever reached out to me one other time."

Sherlock's head shot up in shock. "This isn't the first? _Idiot._ Why didn't you mention this? Why is this the first time I'm hearing about this man?"

John huffed a laugh. "God, it was so long ago. Right after I was officially invalided. I was back in London and received a forwarded bundle of mail that had been sent to me at the military hospital. In it was a card from Klein. Kind of disturbing I guess, but at the time I just thought it was a bit of a sympathy thing, from one discharged vet to another. It was a simple postcard. The front was a comic book villain and the heads of super heroes mounted on the wall behi... Oh." He glanced down at the card he held, which he promptly handed to Sherlock when the tremor in his hand started.

"What was the inscription, John?" Sherlock asked. There was no compassion in his voice; the consulting detective had stepped into case mode and was all detached deductions and cold calculations. "Be as precise as possible."

"'Too bad.'"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.

"That's all he wrote. 'Too bad,' and then he signed his name. No return address either. I remember thinking that was odd. Hmm." John furled his brow.

"What else? There's something else." Leaning slightly forward, Sherlock urged his friend on.

"I remember it wasn't a regular postcard. You know that heavy paper with the glossy front. It was card stock, and it looked like it had been printed on a home printer. So I guess he made it himself. Don't see how that applies." John sipped at his tea.

"Do you still have the card?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Oh well, of course. Let me just go fetch it from the box with the pictures of my dead mates and my metals, yeah?" John deadpanned. "God Sherlock, no I didn't keep it. It was disturbing, so I threw it away."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, and slumped back into his chair with a petulant sigh. "Observation: You can recall the print and paper quality of a postcard you disposed of nearly seven years ago, yet you could not remember the simple components for an experiment I requested on your last outing to the market."

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. Of course I bloody recognized the components needed for cooking meth for God's sake! I knew full well your _experiment_ was to see how quickly I'd be approached about my questionable purchases!" John growled between clenched teeth, "There's a big difference between forgetting and self preservation."

With a giggle, Mary patted John's bare foot. She looked up at John with a grin. "I told him you wouldn't fall for it."

John cocked an eyebrow at her in surprise. "Oh, you did, did you? So I'm being ganged up on now? I still blame _you_ for showing him that program on the telly. I _told_ you it was a bad idea." The corner of his mouth quirked up into a tiny smile.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Back to the matter at hand. _John._ What do you make of the inscription on this card?"

The inside of the card had nothing printed in it. The sender had hand written the inscription.

 _He sees you when you're sleeping._  
 _He knows when you're awake._  
 _He knows if you've been bad or good,_  
 _So be good for goodness sake!_

"Well that's a bit macabre now, isn't it?" Mary shifted to pull her knees closer to her chest.

"Wha..." John exhaled in frustration. "It's a children's Christmas carol. A fairy story!"

"Or the manifesto of a deranged stalker-turned-hunter declaring his sinister intent." Sherlock's severe tone made it clear that John's flippant attitude was not appreciated, nor would it be tolerated. John rolled his eyes in response. "And what of this?" Sherlock pointed at the scrawled letters. "KKK? You said he's American, from a southern state."

"That's a dubious leap, even for you. It's nothing so _obvious_ as all that, Sherlock." Clearly enjoying the fact that he knew something Sherlock hadn't yet deduced, John grinned. "Those are his initials. Khristopher (with a K) Kellan Klein. That his initials are KKK proves nothing other than the fact that his parents are apparently sadists who hate their son. I remember he went by Kel, because Khristopher with a K is just _ridiculous_." Sherlock huffed at the explanation. Dull.

"And what's that little bundle?" Turning to look up at John, Mary pointed to the other item he had pulled from the envelope.

It appeared to be a sachet, of the sort one would stash in a sock drawer, or hang in their closet, in an effort to infuse their garments with a lovely, fresh scent. Rather than sandalwood, lilac or vanilla potpourri wrapped in delicate lace and tied with satin ribbon, this sachet was cut from canvas cloth resembling military camouflage, tied up with thin scarlet cording, and its contents were weighty and rattled when shaken. Very carefully, John unwound the cord and emptied the mysterious items into his cupped palm. "Oh God," he breathed as the color drained from his face. He held his hand down for Mary to see. She looked back at him, her brow creased. John gingerly tipped the contents into Sherlock's waiting hand.

"Fascinating!" Sherlock exclaimed as he examined the tiny metallic orbs.

Incredulous, John narrowed his eyes at his friend. "You know what those are?"

Pulling his magnifier from his pocket, Sherlock took his time evaluating the little spheres. "Seems too small to be a standard ball bearing, though not impossible." He clicked the magnifier closed and shoved it back into his pocket. Sherlock looked from the objects he held in his hand to John. The camouflage fabric that had made up the bundle caught his eye and he froze in place as his mind set to work making connections only he could make.

"There are a style of beads of Czech origin referred to as pips; while these particular beads do not appear to have the standard holes necessary for traditional beading work, there are types of bead work where the beads, or pips, are connected with intricate wire designs. I believe these to be those sort of pips. There are five, all of the same metallic composition. With further testing, I can break down the exact elemental structure. Five pips. Officers of the British military wear the insignia of their office on the shoulder boards of their uniforms. The little metal pins are also called pips. John, as a captain, you would have had a total of six pips on your uniform, correct?"

"Yes. But he didn't send six, only five. I think you're overthinking this. Kel, though demented, never really seemed the type to go to all that symbolic effort. I actually..."

"Please, John. These beads mean _something_. Your clear military connection to Klein makes the likelihood of a reference to your rank, or his ill feelings towards you because of his discharge, the most viable explanation."

"I agree with you on that," with a nod John held out his hand to Sherlock. Reluctantly the consulting detective surrendered the problematic spheres. "Your deduction is, simply put, too poetic for the likes of Pfc. Khristopher K. Klein. If he were a criminal the likes of Moriarty, who appreciated the beauty of complexity and intelligence, maybe. But he's not. This is Kel, whose passion is killing things and putting them on display. This," John held out his hand, "there is nothing poetic about this. These are not beads. They aren't pips. Nor are they ball bearings. These are large game pellets."

Stunned silent, Mary and Sherlock both stared at John. "You know, buckshot? Kel hunts with a 12 gauge shotgun. A standard 12 gauge cartridge can usually hold about nine pellets of this size, but depending on the cartridge up to 18. It's effective on larger game, or in situations of self defense and urban combat, buckshot is particularly damaging at a close range. When the gun is fired, the pellets spread out from each other, and just tear into whatever it is they're aimed at. The resulting wounds are... nasty. Where a single bullet punctures, buckshot rips and tears. I would have guessed you would recognize buckshot Mary."

Eyes wide, Mary nodded. "I suspected that's what it was. But I... what does it mean? I don't think I like the implications of this."

"A card depicting a morbid tableau disguised as a holiday joke. A veiled threat hidden within a children's song. Buckshot wrapped up in military camouflage and tied with cord the color of blood. Isn't it obvious what message the sender intended to tell John?" Sherlock stood from his chair and began pacing the sitting room.

"Do you think the number of pellets means anything specific?" John asked, suddenly feeling bone weary. He examined the envelope and a theory materialized, a thought he'd rather not vocalize. Best to wait for Sherlock. The doctor shifted in his chair; Mary patted his foot once more, though her eyes carefully followed Sherlock's erratic movements.

"Five. _Five pellets._ Why five? Five..." Sherlock's mad pacing ground to a halt in front of a stack of bills on the table. He picked up the stack, and shuffled through the pages, tossing them to the side haphazardly until something in the stack caused him to freeze in place. He unceremoniously discarded the whole lot of pages in the general direction of the table (most never reached their intended target) as he spun around to face John and Mary, a single envelope presented for their inspection. "The post date."

There was a full minute of labored silence as John and Sherlock stared at one another. Mary glanced between the two, wondering if perhaps they weren't communicating by telepathy.

"Tomorrow, then." With a quick glance back at the envelope in his own hand, John sighed in resignation. Sherlock's eyes were bright with the delight that John had put the pieces together until the full realization of what the puzzle revealed struck him, and his shoulders slumped ever so slightly as he dropped into his chair.

"Anyone care to elaborate for the unenlightened?" The question was posed as a joke, but Mary's tone reflected deep concern.

Holding the envelope down for Mary to see, John pointed to the post date. "Tomorrow's five days since the package was posted. Five pellets, five days. Incredibly decent of him, don't you think? Giving advance notice he was coming to exact his revenge."

"This was sent from the States, though. Even first class airmail, how could he be certain you'd get it within five days? Especially so close to the holidays and the increased mail volume?" Letting her fingers brush gently against John's, Mary took the envelope and studied the post mark for herself.

"He couldn't know for a certainty. Not that it would have hindered his plans at all. I suspect the date December 22 holds some special meaning for Mr. Klein." Sherlock looked to John expectantly.

"What? How should I know? I remember the car bomb was sometime just after the new year, so that's not it. And it's not the date I was shot," John reflexively reached for his left shoulder. "Maybe he just wanted to get it done and be home before Christmas. You know, miss the holiday rush at the airport?" He snickered at his joke. Nobody else found the statement funny; he was met with two sets of furled brows, narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

Even the skull on the mantle glared at him in distaste.

"Oh, what?" John scoffed. "This is precisely the sort of thing we face on a weekly basis. One of us is _always_ in some sort of peril at any given time. Only this go around, we know when it's going to happen. I'm ex-military, I know I can match Kel for anything he throws at me. Mary, you're an _assassin_ for God's sake, quite an accomplished one at that. And you," he motioned to Sherlock, "you're always three steps ahead of everyone anyway. Not to mention all the ridiculous hand-to-hand fighting styles you know. I'd say between the three of us, four after I call Greg, we've got this situation handled."

Mary looked up at him with a plastered on saccharine smile that didn't quite shine genuine. "John. Darling..."

John raised both hands to silence her. "Ah, no. Nope. We're not doing that. No pet names," he fixed a determined look on Sherlock, who glared back in like, "no _vatican cameos_ protocol. We'll take precautions and be prepared, but that's it. I'm not going to give this mental case the satisfaction of disrupting another day of my life. We go about our day as usual tomorrow, staying vigilant as always, and that's it."

"John!" Mary exclaimed at the same instant Sherlock growled, "Absolutely, under no circumstance are you leaving this flat for the next 36 to 48 hours. Not until Klein is found and arrested!"

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing to be done about it. Tomorrow is the last day the clinic is open for four days because of Christmas. Flu season started early this year, and we're already short a doctor. I _am_ going to work tomorrow." Defiantly, John crossed his arms over his chest.

Sherlock sprung to his feet with a roar. "Do stop being an _idiot_ , John. You know very well it's the criminals with a plan who are often the most unpredictable. You said it yourself, he's a hunter, which means he's been tracking you. The package was sent to the townhouse, not here, so he knows you have a new mailing address. Logically, then, he knows you've married. He's likely mapped your route to the clinic, not to mention here, and noted the shops and other places you frequent. If he's done his job, he knows your schedule better than you do."

"How is that possible?" Irritation evident in his tone, John also stood. "He only mailed the envelope on Saturday. Even if he left the States right then, he's only been here three days."

"He could have had someone mail it for him," Mary suggested. "It's possible he's been here for weeks. Or months."

"Precisely! Think, John. That is the most likely scenario, is it not? He wouldn't be able to travel with his weapons, so he would've had to obtain them here. With his background he'd have to purchase a gun illegally, and that process can take _time_ for someone who has no connections. He will be armed, he will have a plan, as well as several contingencies, and he will have had weeks to focus on nothing but his hatred of you. No. It's decided. You stay put, right here, until Klein is apprehended." Despite the fact that John was standing, the height difference between he and Sherlock, and the fierce glint in Sherlock's eye, made it seem the consulting detective was positively looming over the doctor.

John refused to break the eye contact. Not this time. "I appreciate your _concern_ , Sherlock," his tone was forced control exemplified. Sherlock scoffed and mumbled something about sentiment under his breath. "If he has a plan, and several contingency plans, then let's operate under the notion that no matter where I am tomorrow, he'll find me. Here, the townhouse, the clinic, or Bart's even. I'd rather be keeping myself occupied at work than sitting home fretting. No. Thank. You." He accentuated his point by standing at full military attention.

With a devious smirk, Sherlock took a step closer into John's personal space. "Conscientious Doctor John Watson would _never_ willingly put all those innocent, _defenseless_ , people in harm's way. Children. Mothers. The weak and infirm. _Old people_. You would never put _their_ lives at risk. You care. _Too. Much._ " He punctuated each of the last two words by poking John on the chest just above his heart.

" _Step. Back._ "

"Mmm, I don't think so." Sherlock stepped a little closer. "Not until you admit that I'm right, that the only logically safe place is right here." He motioned to the flat around them with a wide sweep of his arm, and managed not to break eye contact.

"I'm not so sure 221b is the safest place for _anybody_ right this moment," the timbre of John's voice had edged from Captain Watson to something just the tiniest bit feral.

"Oh, you two. Mary dear, how did you ever get mixed up with this lot?" Mrs. Hudson bustled into the flat with a plate of colorfully decorated gingerbread. "Tsk. No Christmas tree? Not even a wreath. Well, I..."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" The two men, inches from throwing punches, bellowed in unison. Scandalized, Mrs. Hudson's hands flew to her neck with a gasp.

"That's _it_." Having had her fill of petulant three-year-old posturing, Mary placed her arm around the landlady's shoulders and steered her toward the steps. "Mrs. Hudson, we were just in the middle of a rather unpleasant conversation. I think these two need a few minutes. Do you mind if I join you downstairs for some tea?"

"Of course, dear." Recovering herself, Mrs. Hudson tsk'd all the way down the stairs to her flat.

"I'll be right down!" Mary called sweetly after her. Spinning quickly, she dropped the facade. "You two settle this," she hissed. "Or I will settle it for you. There aren't many hours left until it's tomorrow. If we want to catch this maniac, we need to get started. I'm going to go down and beg Mrs. Hudson to forgive the both of you. While I'm gone, you get to work." With a huff Mary stormed from the flat. As she stomped down the steps she fired off a quick text.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something especially scathing to John when his mobile began to ring. John's smirk was positively maddening, but not more so than the fact that Mycroft was the one calling. " _What?_ " Sherlock growled as he conceded temporary victory of the stand off to John, and dropped dejectedly into his chair.

Sherlock growled. With a roll of his eyes he looked at John. "Mary texted Mycroft."

Huffing a laugh, John eased into his chair as his own phone began to vibrate. He glanced at the screen and held it up for Sherlock to see. They both sighed. "Greg. Mary text you? Let me put you on speaker. Sherlock's got Mycroft."

When Mary returned to the flat twenty minutes later the doctor and the detective were no longer ready to strangle each other, though tension still hung in the air as a heated argument was waged between the two men and two disembodied voices via mobile. Greg was of the opinion, in absolute accordance with Sherlock ( _HA!_ ), that John had no business even considering leaving 221b until Klein was in custody. Mycroft, to the contrary, thought John's approach ( _thank you, very much_ ) of drawing Klein out of hiding would be the most effective. Sherlock was actively accusing his brother of siding with John simply to be spiteful, and John was giving Greg a severe dressing down for attempting to mother him to death.

An ear piercing whistle brought the verbal brawl to a sudden halt. Mary lowered her fingers from her lips, and calmly smoothed the front of her blouse with both hands. "That is quite enough. Not exactly helping, are you Greg? Mycroft?" Mary's tone was light but firm. And terrifying. "Are we settled?" She looked from John to Sherlock. Both men stared wide eyed back at her, unmoving. The only sound from Greg was a nervous hum. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"No then? Fine." Mary stood in front of the fireplace, facing the two idiots sitting across from each other, and spoke clearly enough that the two idiots connected by mobile could hear her. "This is the plan. John is going to connect to the MI6 network with his log-in, and Mycroft's blessing..."

"Oh... Of course, yes." Mycroft's uncharacteristic stutter did not go unnoticed, evidenced by the corners of Sherlock's mouth quirking up ever so slightly.

"Sherlock is going to then begin a search for Mr. Klein. There has to be a paper trail. A passport. Airline tickets. Cash exchange. Credit card receipts. Anything. Greg, you're going to call Molly, explain everything, tell her you'll be late. Then, you're going to pick up dinner. Your choice. You will come here to 221b, and you will access the MET's network, and we'll all pretend Sherlock doesn't already know how to hack into it. Got it?"

"Uhm, okay," Greg mumbled. Sherlock nodded.

"Good. John's going to dig out the bullet proof vests Greg got the two of you for Christmas last year, and make sure his gun and ammo are ready. Then, everyone's going to get some rest. Tomorrow, Greg you're going to drive John to work."

John grinned triumphantly, first up at Mary, and then mockingly at Sherlock. Both Greg and Sherlock began to protest, loudly and with much vulgarity. Mary silenced them with another screeching whistle.

"John _will_ have his gun with him, and he _WILL_ be wearing the vest. No arguments, _darling_." Mary leveled a commanding glare at John who nodded once in resigned acceptance. "Mycroft, we'll need men posted around the clinic, as well as the townhouse and Baker Street."

"Agreed." Mycroft answered without hesitation.

"Greg, can you arrange to have extra patrols of those neighborhoods? Nothing too conspicuous."

"Done."

"Good. I'm off work tomorrow, so Sherlock and I will stay here and continue digging into Klein's past for anything that might tell us where he's hiding, or what his plan actually is. If Klein hasn't presented himself by the end of John's shift, Greg, you will bring John back here, and we will regroup and plan the next step then. Are we agreed?"

She was rewarded with a feeble chorus of "Yes ma'am."

"Excellent." Mary clasped her hand together and smiled cheerfully. "You have your assignments. I'll go set up the coffee pot."

Voice low, Greg wondered aloud, "Uhm, what just happened?"

"I... I have no... _God_... What..." John stammered, bewildered. He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips.

"An eastern wind," Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as he watched Mary move about the kitchen.

"Hmm. Indeed," Mycroft concurred. "I best be about my _assignment_ then. Sherlock, send me what you find and we can pull CCTV and security footage for you. And gentlemen? Good luck. It sounds like you'll need it." With that the call was disconnected.

"I suppose I'll be seeing you soon. Leave some coffee for me, yeah?" Greg hung up the call.

Sherlock and John were left stunned, staring at one another, with only the sounds of Mary running water and humming softly. The two men leapt from their chairs at once and each attempted to beat the other to the kitchen. John's smaller stature and physicality gave him a brief edge, but proved no match for Sherlock's grace and elongated stride.

"You aren't actually planning on staying here tomorrow, _are you_?" It was as much an accusation as a query. "What are you planning?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, I couldn't very well tell those other two I'm going to play assassin tomorrow, now could I? I suspect Mycroft already knows, but Greg doesn't, and it's probably best for everyone that it doesn't come up, don't you think? And to answer your question Sherlock, you are correct. There is an empty flat just across from the townhouse. I've checked it out; it's a perfect vantage point for the entire front of the house. That is where I'll be. Until it it's time to report back here, of course." Mary winked conspiratorially at Sherlock. "And no, you can't come with me, you're too recognizable. And fidgety. You'll give me away."

Sherlock scowled and pouted.

"As for you, John," Mary took a step forward. John planted his feet firmly in his spot just behind and to the right of Sherlock ( _not_ hiding). "I know you keep the Sig ready, and I know the vests are stored in your closet. But I need you to go up to the attic and pull out my rifle. It's due for a good cleaning and oiling. The scope was a little off the last time, and you told me then you'd look at it, but you keep forgetting, so you can do it tonight. You'll have to keep it upstairs while Greg is here of course, but he won't suspect a thing." Mary patted his arm and nudged him toward the sitting room. "Go on and log in to MI6. Greg will be here soon with dinner." Mary turned and started pulling plates and coffee cups from the cupboard.

John picked up his laptop, sighed, and looked over his shoulder at his friend. "Sherlock?"

"Hm."

"Did I just get sent to my room?"

"It would appear so." Sherlock furled his brow, deep in thought. "If it eases the sting at all, I believe I was just grounded."

They shared a sideways glance, and all composure was lost. John snorted, "Oh God. We're whipped. Both of us."

"I don't think the scope of the whipping is limited to just the two of us. You heard Mycroft didn't you? And Lestrade..." Sherlock collapsed into his chair in a fit of laughter. The D.I. chose that moment to step into the flat, his laptop tucked under one arm as he balanced two pizza boxes and a six pack.

"What about Lestrade?" Greg eyed his friends suspiciously. John inhaled a shaky breath and Sherlock clamped a hand over his mouth. They exchanged a look and dissolved into another fit of hysterics.

"Oh, don't mind them, Greg. Thanks for coming so quickly. You can just put that pizza on the coffee table." Mary offered to hang up Greg's coat. "How's Molly? And the baby? Precious Ella." Mary smiled lovingly as she said the name.

The two chatted pleasantly as John forced a plate with a single slice of pizza, nothing green in sight, into Sherlock's hands. "It's going to be a long night, and probably a long couple of days. _Please_ Sherlock, for me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "You're a diabolical, shameless manipulator, you know that, right?"

"It's how he ended up with me," giggled Mary. "Now eat up so we can get to work."

The evening was spent quietly anxious as the Band of Brothers, with the addition of Mary (an honorary brother as far as the men were concerned - especially after that time she thwarted the would be mugger when she and a very pregnant Molly were out for lunch), set about their grim tasks.

Greg sat at the sitting room table and worked diligently, searching police records for any trace or mention of Klein; he took neat, concise notes as he worked. He had reached out to a friend in the States (law enforcement officers, no matter their nationality, are often drawn by a sort of sixth sense to their fellow peacekeepers, and if the need were to arise, they gravitate to one another for support and backup; as it turns out, 11 AM on a sweltering Tuesday morning in July, traversing the Magic Kingdom's Main Street USA with his unfaithful, _soon to be ex_ , wife was reason enough for Greg Lestrade to require back up). Jackson Davis was Chief of Police of a small town in Alabama and _God_ was he bored. He jumped at the chance to help his friend and the eccentric consulting detective Greg had told him stories about.

"Thanks, Jax. Sorry again for calling so early, but we're in kind of a bind here. Yeah... yeah. Okay, mate. Ring me if you find _anything_. No matter the time." The D.I. hung up and stood to stretch. "It's not much to go on, with no date of birth or address, but Klein's name is just unique enough, Jax thinks he'll be able to get us info if there is anything to be had. Here in London, on the other hand, we've got nothing. I've got searches on for a few recent John Doe cases, but Klein's name doesn't come up at all. Besides what we already know, he appears to be a model tourist." He went to the kitchen for more coffee.

Sherlock grunted in response, as he scribbled furiously on a stack of scrap paper. He leapt from his chair and immediately began unceremoniously rifling through the piles on the table. It took a few moments, but Sherlock managed to unearth a well worn map of London and tattered box of push pins. Without so much as a word of warning, Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and up onto couch. Mary, who was curled up against the arm of the couch, glanced up from her tablet long enough to roll her eyes at him, and then shrug at Greg. Sherlock had finished hanging the map and was pinning his scraps of paper to the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned as he looked over what he had. With an exasperated sigh he dropped down to the seat and took up every inch of the couch not already occupied by Mary.

"Mary, your hypothesis was correct. Klein went through customs with no issues at Heathrow on the 25th of November, so he's been here nearly a month. International flight on an American airline. One way ticket. Checked no luggage, but had a military style duffle as his carry-on. He used a personal credit card at an airport coffee shop. Exchanged the equivalent of $250 U.S. dollars at the International Currency Exchange in the terminal. There is security footage of all of his interactions, including hailing a cab. The paper trail ends there." Sherlock stared at the sparse notes affixed to his map on the wall as he absently steepled his fingers under his chin.

Greg and Mary had been listening intently, but exchanged a concerned look. "$250 U.S. dollars is only, what, about £160 here? Sherlock, that's not enough to buy weapons and supplies, especially not black market weapons. How..." Greg furled his brow as he turned his attention to the notes stuck on the wall.

"I am well aware the nature of the black market," Sherlock growled. "I am also aware of the implications. He must have a contact here. Someone who already has access to weapons, or can get access. And someone who has a place he can stay."

With a sigh Mary held up her tablet. "I've got nothing of any consequence either."

Greg hadn't expected Mary would find much by way of social media; Klein didn't exactly seem the type.

Sherlock tugged at his hair. Mary's news was more unsettling than Lestrade could ever know, as Mary had actually gained access (through channels she infuriatingly refused to reveal to Sherlock) to the CIA intranet. It was the one avenue Sherlock was certain would give them something to go on. _Anything._ An uncomfortable sense of failure hung between the three as they sat in quiet introspection, the realization dawning that after hours of searching they were no closer to finding Klein than they had been when they started.

"Well, I found them. Had to nearly tear the attic apart," John fibbed as he made his way down the stairs to the sitting room, "but I found the vests. Sherlock, yours still has the note card from Greg on it. You told me you... used... it..." Stopped short at the bottom of the steps by three plaintive gazes watching his every move, John cleared his throat. He glanced at Sherlock's evidence wall and winced when he noticed the meager notations made there. A look of resigned determination settled on John's face. "Right. So, it's almost 1 AM. Greg, you need to go home. See to Molly and the baby, and try to get some rest. I need to be at the clinic at 8. We'll pick up with all of this tomorrow, yeah?"

Reluctantly Greg nodded. "Okay." He set his coffee cup in the sink, put the untouched six pack in the refrigerator for a later date, and gathered up his laptop. Shrugging into his jacket, Greg clapped John on the back. "I'll ring when I'm on my way, yeah? Don't even think of leaving before I get here. I'm serious, John."

"Yes, sir." John mock saluted Greg with a grin. Greg rolled his eyes. "Greg, come on, everything will be fine. We'll be fine. Now, Go. Home. And lock the front door behind you, okay?" John nudged his friend out the door, watched him descend the steps, and then locked the flat door behind him.

The extra precaution did not go unnoticed.

John strode to the window, watched Greg pull away, and tugged the curtains closed. He did the same to the other window, switching off lamps as he went and grumbling about every light in the place being on and this month's electric bill. "Anyone else a little chilly? I think I'll start a fire." Without waiting for an answer John made quick work of getting a fire roaring in the fireplace.

Sherlock and Mary sat in silence watching their John bustle about the flat. When he turned back to collect the pizza boxes and dirty dishes from the coffee table his best friend and his wife both smiled tentatively up at him, the concern in both sets of eyes betraying their true emotions. John did his best to smile reassuringly back at them. "We're going to be fine." There was no way to know that for sure, but he needed to convince himself if he was going to convince everyone else. "I'm going to wash these, and then take a shower. I'll bring you tea in a moment."

The instant John had his back turned to them, Mary's hand found Sherlock's and they held tight to each other. Sherlock had long taken for granted the easy way he and John were able to communicate non-verbally, confounding criminals and utterly astounding everyone else. He had been taken off his guard entirely the first time he and Mary shared a look and had come to a mutual understanding. It was alarming, infinitely useful, and lovely.

Sitting together, holding hands, it was just such a conversation the consulting detective and the unassuming assassin found themselves engaged in. Sherlock's crystalline eyes had clouded over. _I made a promise and I intend to keep it. No matter what, I will protect him._ Mary looked up at him, tenderness in her own wary eyes. _I know._ She squeezed his hand. _I promise too._

John returned with two steaming mugs and set them down on the coffee table. His voice was soft and his smile genuine. "I know you're talking about me." Sherlock huffed a laugh and Mary's breathy gasp was caught somewhere between a giggle and a sorrowful sniff. John released a shuddering breath and looked from Sherlock to Mary. _We're going to be fine_. He retreated to the shower and returned fifteen minutes later dressed for bed, a cup of tea in hand. Flipping off the last of the lights, leaving only the glow from the fireplace to illuminate the room, John grabbed the throw blanket from the back of his chair and turned to the couch.

Mary had fallen asleep, curled in a petite ball, wrapped in a fuzzy throw. Sherlock still held her hand, and sat watching her sleep. _Memorizing_ John realized. "Scoot," John whispered. He didn't indicate which direction, leaving the choice to Sherlock, who opted to vacate the center of the couch. John squeezed into the middle, and Mary shifted in her sleep, slipping her toes under John's bum for warmth. " _God,_ she has the coldest feet!" John gasped and Sherlock laughed softly. Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest and sank into the back of the couch, his right shoulder pressed against John's left shoulder. John put his feet up on the coffee table, crossing his legs at the ankles, and spread the blanket over as much of himself and Sherlock as he could. "Okay?" Sherlock hummed his contentment.

"We are going to be fine," John mumbled to no one in particular.

"So I've been told," whispered Sherlock.

They _were_ going to be fine. John was sure of it. They were _always_ fine. Always. Even when Sherlock had "died," it had taken time, but eventually, they were fine again.

So there was absolutely no reason he could logically come up with, tucked between two of the people he loved most in the world, that this tiny bit of closeness and restful peace should also feel like goodbye.

* * *

 **PRESENT: Thursday, 22 December, 2016**

John found himself suddenly very aware of every single person in the tube carriage around him. His vantage point wasn't great from the seated position, and he considered standing next to the pole directly in front of him. He'd be able to look more people in the eye if he were standing. But sitting where he was, across from, and to the left of, the sliding doors, no one could take him by surprise from behind. And he would be able to see who entered and who left.

He opted to stay seated, back rigid, scanning the faces of his fellow passenger. Looking. Looking, looking, looking. He was still gripping his mobile, knuckles gone white with the tension. The weight of it grounded him. Well, that and the gun tucked away next to the small of his back. That helped too.

Breathe, idiot. You've taken the tube hundreds of times. This one's no different... Okay, a little different. But you've got your gun, you're in control of your environment, and the vest... Oh God...

Despite the temperature being unseasonably cold outside, the heating unit had gotten all out of sorts at the clinic. John's office in particular was especially sauna-like. It was out of pure necessity that he had shed both his jumper and the bullet proof vest by 10 AM that morning, working in just his button up and even forgoing the lab coat. He'd hidden the vest in a locked drawer, and by the time the exhausting day had ended, he'd forgotten all about it.

It wasn't like him to forget.

But then, he had been distracted. It seemed half of London had come down with this year's strain of influenza. Despite the pleas of the NHS, the general population seemed more convinced than usual that the most effective course of action would be to flood into hospitals and clinics, demand antibiotics, and essentially prevent patients who would actually benefit from a physician's assessment access to care. Sarah attributed the influx of patients to the fact that people didn't want to be sick for Christmas. John attributed it to stupidity, and had to increasingly fight the urge to fly into a full-on Sherlockesque rage with each new sniffling, achy, slightly fevered patient he saw.

Sherlock texted every fifteen minutes. John failed to respond in a timely manner only twice; on both occasions one of Mycroft's men had burst into his office unannounced, despite the protests of the nurses, and to the horror of both doctor and patient. Sherlock was going to pay. Dearly.

Mary called him every hour, on the hour, to check on him. He didn't dare decline those calls. He wasn't afraid of Mary, exactly, though he did wonder at the logic of that.

Greg planted himself in the waiting area for most of the morning, unbeknownst to John. It wasn't until John escorted one of his favorite patients, who actually had an appointment, to check-out that he spotted his friend. John simply leveled a glare in Greg's direction and motioned to the door with a jerk of his head. It was best for everyone present that Greg read the situation correctly and promptly vacated the premises; Dr. Watson didn't necessarily want to introduce his patients to Captain Watson, but he definitely entertained the idea.

John had also taken the precaution of alerting the clinic's lone security guard of the situation, with as little detail as possible about the threat to his own life, and despite the presence of Mycroft's men. It was really just a courtesy for when the real security would descend upon the clinic in the case Kel Klein made an appearance. Charlie, the young new security guard, took the burden of knowledge to heart, and reassured John he would be in top form; he was honored to have a role in this case for Mr. Holmes, and he would not let them down. John had genuinely smiled, and assured Charlie he knew it to be so.

The young man was barely 23 years old with no security experience, at least a foot taller than John, lanky yet muscular. He was a true teddy bear of a man, armed with nothing but a weighty police style torch (not standard issue for the security company, his mum had given it to him for his last birthday), a can-do attitude, very surprisingly a black belt in karate, and a healthy dose of reverential hero worship for the former military doctor. He eagerly checked in with _Captain_ Watson on the half of every hour, despite John's insistence the reports weren't necessary.

Sarah hadn't been willing to turn anyone away, and at 4 PM, despite the doors to the clinic being locked, the waiting area still crowded. Even with everyone staying over, there was going to be at least two hours of work left to do. John sent a group text to Sherlock, Mary and Greg noting the change in plans.

He was met with vehement protestation.

 _Wrong. SH_

 _John, Darling, you get to 221b this instant. This is not even a discussion. MW_

 _I just received a call to a scene. I can't wait around. If you don't leave now, I'll have to leave you there mate. GL_

 _Then it's settled. I'll stay and finish up here. Simple. JW_

 _DO NOT LEAVE HIM THERE, GRAHAM. SH_

 _Greg, please. MW_

 _John, if you think it'll be two hours, I should be able to be back by then. GL_

 _Take Sherlock with you. He'll figure it out. I'm not leaving. JW_

 _JOHN. SH_

 _John! MW_

 _Okay, I'm pulling out now. GLx_

 _Greg. Do NOT leave. John, you get in that car immediately. SH_

 _Greg. SH_

 _He won't answer. JW_

 _GREG. SH_

 _I'm going to kill the both of you. SH_

 _Sherlock! MW_

 _Oi! Real appropriate, Sherlock. JW_

 _John, just be careful, okay? MW_

 _We're locked in with security. And Mycroft's men are around too. We're going to be fine. JW_

 _I will send a car after Dr. Watson. MH_

 _Mycroft. SH_

 _You don't text. SH_

 _Mycroft? How? This is a private text conversation. JW_

 _Never mind, I don't want to know. Thank you, that is very appreciated. JW_

As far as John was concerned, the plan was set. Mary let him know that she was going to watch the townhouse for a little while longer, but she would pick up dinner and head to Baker Street within the hour. Sherlock expressed his disdain for the world, Lestrade and that God forsaken clinic in particular.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

For about 45 minutes.

As it turned out, the after hours patients were just relieved to be seen, as ready to be on their way home as the staff, and most had settled down to become surprisingly cooperative and honest. John finished the last of his paperwork at 4:40 PM.

 _Done early. Mycroft, is the car here? JW_

 _This is hardly early, John. SH_

 _There's been a complication. The car is not there as yet. MH_

 _WHAT? SH_

 _Mycroft. MW_

 _It's fine. ETA? JW_

 _Could be hours. Due to inclement weather several traffic accidents have roads blocked. MH_

 _The arranged car cannot get in, and the men who are there with you cannot get their vehicles out. MH_

 _I advise you stay where you are. MH_

 _I'm leaving the crime scene now. I'll try another approach. GL_

 _That was surprisingly quick. SH_

 _Quiet you. I AM a detective. GL_

 _I could take the tube. It's not even a block away. JW_

 _NO. GL_

 _John. Darling. MW_

 _Ill advised. MH_

 _Idiot. Stay where you are. SH_

 _John. Please. Let one of us come to you. SH_

 _Everyone else has gone besides Charlie, our security guard. He's taking the tube. I'm walking with him. JW_

 _JOHN. GL_

 _Dr Watson. MH_

 _NO, JOHN. MW_

 _JOHN. NO. PLEASE. SH_

 _I have my gun and he's a black belt. We're going to be fine. Headed out now. JWx_

 _John Watson, you turn around and go back to your office immediately. MW_

 _JOHN. SH_

 _John, please. MW_

 _Dr Watson and another adult male have exited the clinic. My men will stick with them. MH_

John and Charlie slowly made their way to the station through the unusual slushy remnants of the sleet that had attempted to bring the city to a halt. John's patchwork family waited impatiently for Mycroft to send the next status report.

 _Dr Watson has entered the station. MH_

A pause. Infuriatingly, exasperatingly too long.

 _Mycroft? GL_

 _There's been a power surge. CCTV cameras are non-responsive. We've lost visuals on Dr Watson. MH_

 _Mycroft. SH_

 _Mycroft, fix it now. SH_

 _Are your men with him? GL_

 _Communication is limited underground and the weather is causing interference, Detective. We are working as quickly as we can. MH_

 _Do it faster. SH_

The brotherly bickering continued for another several minutes before Mary finally chimed in.

 _Oh God. Sherlock. MW_

 _Mary? GL_

 _None of you are at the townhouse right now, are you? MW_

 _Of course not. MH_

 _Almost to Baker Street station. GL_

 _You wouldn't let me, remember? SH_

 _Mary, what's happened? SH_

 _I left from there to pick up dinner. 20 minutes ago. MW_

 _WHY were you there? GL_

 _Irrelevant. Continue, Mary. SH_

 _I just got a call from our landline there. Ragged breathing. Definitely male. MW_

 _Mycroft. SH_

 _Still no confirmation. MH_

 _I'm going back. MW_

 _Mary, go to the apartment across the street. Wait there. Greg, come get me. SH_

 _Be there in 2, Sherlock. Mary, don't do anything stupid. GL_

 _I'm going in. I can't leave him to die. MW_

 _Mary. It is very unlikely the caller was John. SH_

 _MARY. SH_

 _I've got verbal confirmation she has entered the house. MH_

 _Stop her, Mycroft! SH_

 _Jjhon daelng_

 _Greg where are you? SH_

 _Here now. What was that? GL_

 _"John Darling." It's code for imminent threat. SH_

 _Bloody hell. Hurry. GL_

 _One of our cars is near Baker Street. I will send it and more men to intercept John. MH_

 _Mycroft? SH_

 _My men have entered the house. Visual confirmation. Emergency services enroute. MH_

 _Detective. Brother. Hurry. MH_

John saw the men in black suits before the train came to a halt. Four of them. Mysterious and imposing. Blocking the door to the third carriage. His carriage. He glanced at the onboard camera and rolled his eyes. _Mycroft._ Pulling his coat more tightly around himself, John stood before the doors even opened. One man stepped menacingly into the carriage, interrupting the flow of passengers from the carriage.

"Doctor Watson? Please come with me."

"Coming... Sorry... Oh, God, sorry... Excuse me..." John squeezed his way through the angry mass of passengers waiting to disembark. "So," John eyed the first intimidating man. "Which one of them sent you? 221b is just down the block. I'm sorry to waste your time." The four men surrounded John, and they very nearly marched as a unit from the station as the curious crowd parted around them.

" the elder sent us, sir. We're to take you to Mr. Holmes the younger."

"Riiight... But _Mr. Holmes the younger_ is supposed to be waiting for me at 221b." Stepping into the growing dusk, John turned toward the flat. He was boxed in and forced to the waiting car. A door was opened, and as was his habit, he ducked his head in to glimpse his kidnapper. No Mycroft. No Sherlock. Not even Anthea... or whatever her name was now. "Okay. What's this all about?" John demanded as he stepped back away from the car.

"Please Dr Watson, for your own safety, get in the car. We are to take you to Mr. Holmes the younger. Mr. Holmes the elder recommends you review your text messages."

John sighed and ducked into the car. At least it was warm. He pulled out his mobile and scrolled back through the messages with a smirk. Until one stopped him cold.

 _Jjhon daelng_

Oh God. OH GOD.

Mary.

* * *

 **PAST: Wednesday, 20 May, 2015**

"Doctor Watson, do you need help with anything?" the office door clicked open with a knock, and Mary stepped further into the room. She had a file tucked under her arm, and her hands were clasped in front of her. "You've only just been out of hospital a week. Should you be here?"

John looked up from the tangle of computer cords in front of him. "Mary," he smiled kindly at her. "I think I'm okay. I just couldn't stand to be in the flat for another minute. I'm not actually seeing patients. God I hate this computer. Using it one handed is difficult enough, but the bloody interim doctor switched the mouse over to the wrong side of the desk, and I... can't... seem..." With a frustrated growl John tossed the tangled mess onto the desk. "And _what_ is that smell? Oh my God."

"He eats a lot of tuna." Mary stifled a laugh at John's disgusted face and stepped up to his desk. She picked up the knot of cords. "Do you mind?"

"Please!" John groaned. "God, I can't wait to get rid of these braces and splints. The longer I go without full use of my hands, the closer I feel to insanity. Seriously. You have no idea."

Mary smiled sympathetically and nodded. She cleared her throat, suddenly looking very timid. "Doctor Watson, I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?" Mary looked cautiously around the room. The glance wouldn't have been obvious to anyone else, but John saw it. "In private?" With a final twist of a cord, Mary placed the mouse next to the keyboard so John could reach it with his left hand.

Nodding his thanks, John sat up a little straighter. "Absolutely. Are you comfortable with the door open?"

"I'd rather close it." Mary ducked her head and looked away from John. He simply smiled in return and motioned to the door. With a gentle push, Mary closed and then locked the office door.

 _Interesting._

"Doctor Watson, I have a proposition for you." Mary's movements were quick and fluid as she turned from the door and took the seat across the desk from John.

"That sounds..." He quirked his mouth into a slight smile. "Incredibly inappropriate for office talk."

The faintest hint of a blush bloomed across her face. She looked down at her feet and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. When she looked back up, the blush was gone, and her gun steel eyes stared back at him with determination. "They warned me about you."

John's amiable expression harden just slightly and he cocked an eyebrow at her. "Did they now? And what did _they_ have to say?"

Looking John directly in the eyes, maintaining her cool demeanor, Mary smirked. " _They_ warned me you consider yourself to be very charming."

"I see." John seemed to contemplate the accusation. "Well, I apologize for the confusion, but _they_ are wrong, because I _AM_ charming. There's nothing left to consider."

A surprised laugh escaped before Mary had time to stop it. She bit her lower lip.

"But that, I suspect, is not the reason you wanted to talk." John fished a set of keys from his backpack. He looked up with an embarrassed smile. "I feel like a twelve year old carrying this backpack, but..." he indicated to his right arm in the sling with his left hand still in a brace. "My friend Greg calls this my man purse, or murse. He and I probably won't be friends much longer." John huffed a laugh and Mary watched him warily. The entire time he was chattering, John was unlocking one of the desk's deep drawers. He pulled out a single file folder and placed it on the desk.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Mary? The water in the electric kettle is still warm." John pointed in the general direction of the kettle with his head as he locked the drawer and turned to open the drawer on the opposite side.

"No thank you. Um, Doctor Watson, I..."

"Please, you can call me John." He didn't even look up as he was concentrating on something in the drawer. Something that seemed incredibly difficult one handed.

"Oh, okay, John." There was a hint of a smile in her voice as she said his name. He looked up briefly with a small lopsided smile, but turned quickly back to his task.

"Almost got it." John grunted as he struggled with whatever he was working on and cursed under his breath. "Sorry, sorry."

Mary just giggled.

God. She giggled.

She's very good.

There was a very distinct pop, and John lifted what appeared to be a false bottom from the drawer. Next he produced a second file folder. This one was nearly three inches thick. Mary swallowed hard as she met John's eyes.

He knew.

How could he?

"You have a problem, Ms. Morstan." John's voice had gone suddenly sullen, and any trace of softness had vanished from his face. He lifted the first file folder for her to see. "This is your employment file. Just a copy, Sarah keeps all the originals. But she lets me make copies of everything. I convinced her it was because of my military background, and the need to know about those I'm serving with."

John flipped the folder open. "Nurse. Up to date credentials. Excellent education. Experienced. _Volunteered for Doctors Without Borders,_ good for you." John nodded. He kept his eyes on the file. "Almost too good to be true." He looked up just as Mary's eyes flicked over the second file folder.

Hmm. Yes, there was panic there.

Not an act this time.

"Sarah adores you. She did from the moment you walked in to interview. Which is funny, because she didn't even want to hire a new nurse." A calculated grin spread across John's face. "I'm the one convinced her we needed someone. And I'm the one who made sure yours was the only resume she saw. Padded it a bit for you. Military service or working for the MSF. Always a good bolster, or a good cover, especially for someone as well travelled, and as skilled, as yourself. Hope you don't mind. Sarah loves globally minded people."

"I..." Mary's composure was very near breaking. "I don't understand."

Sliding the thick folder across the desk, John tapped it twice. "To the very best of my knowledge, with the help of the resources of MI6," John leaned in and whispered, "I have a secret consulting job there, by the way. It's a bit sexy, yeah?" Leaning back, John flashed a cheeky grin. "This is everything. This, Mary Morstan, is your life. Or, should I say, A. G. R. A. - those are your initials, correct?"

Mary had gone a very unnatural shade of white. Her eyes grew wide as she listened to John talk, and an errant tear ran down her cheek. She was well and truly terrified. That meant...

Eyes and pallor, genuine reaction.

Tear? Fake. Nicely done.

"There are two complete copies of this file. This one," John indicated the folder on his desk. "And one in the possession of Charles Augustus Magnussen. And that, Ms. Morstan, is the reason you have locked yourself in my office, is it not?"

There wasn't any more hiding. She had to explain herself. The words just tumbled out. "I've done so, so many... things. Some I'm not very proud of. A few very terrible things. And I... _He_ contacted me. I don't know how... or who... He has everything. He knows _everything_. Got me burned so I can't work for the CIA anymore. Can't work for anyone any more. No one but him. Not even..." Mary hesitated, and John just nodded. "Not even Moriarty would hire me. I found your blog. When Sherlock came back, I thought maybe, _maybe_ , if anyone could stop Magnussen he could. I saw the listing for the job here, and thought..." Mary choked back a sob. "He's getting closer, John. I can't stop him. I've tried. But I won't work for that... that monster. I can't. I won't. I'll die first." Mary buried her face in her hands and took a few shuddering breaths to try to compose herself.

"So, you offered to proposition me, in my place of employment, in order to get to my flatmate? Huh. Can't say as I'm surprised though. There are worse ways to get to Sherlock Holmes than making a pass at me." John's tone had gone soft and friendly, as it had been when Mary first entered.

Inhaling sharply, Mary didn't even try to suppress her laugh. " _Oh my God, would you get over yourself already?_ "

A box of facial tissues sat on John's desk. He reached for one, but instead of handing it to Mary, as she expected him to, he brought it to his own eyes and pretend to dab tears. Mary scowled at him. "You're very good. I almost believed that whole performance. Your statements are true, but you aren't afraid of Magnussen. You hate him."

A sharp nod of agreement and Mary sat back in her chair making every effort to appear unreadable. She gasped then as realization set in. "You're not so bad yourself you know." She thought a moment. "You played me. The interim doctor is left handed too. Oh you, you really are..."

"Charming? Clever? Amazing?" John offered with a devious grin and a wink.

"Manipulative." She smiled coyly. She reached across the desk to pick up her file. John stopped her by wrapping his fingers around her wrist and pressing gently to her pulse point.

"Mary," serious John was back. "You need help. We want to help you. But we're going to need your help as well."

"Me?" She looked incredulous as she withdrew her wrist from John's grasp and placed it in her lap. The thumb of her other hand absently rubbed along the swath of skin where John's fingers had just been pressed.

"Magnussen is scum of the earth, and his reach is far. The fact is, taking him down is going to be... complicated. Sherlock's been trying for several months now. Someone with your particular skill set could come in infinitely useful. Rather than taking you on as a client, Sherlock and I would like to take you on as a private contractor." John stood and moved around to the front of his desk, leaning back against it, just in front of Mary. "Don't decide now. But we need to move quickly." He handed her a business card with 221b Baker Street printed on one side, and 7:00 PM scribbled on the back. "Meet with us. Tonight."

"Can you tell me any part of the plan? Anything at all? God, I don't even really know you at all. And we've not met, but I kind of really hate Sherlock. This is crazy. Absolutely insane." Mary looked at John, scrutinizing him. "I... You haven't even called me by my real name, though I know you know it. I'm going to have to assume a new identity aren't I? Can you at least tell me that?"

"Well, the plan is... I... _We_ were thinking Mary _Watson_ had a nice ring to it." John suddenly looked boyishly bashful.

Mary thought on that for a moment, and smiled conspiratorially at John. "So, a long con then?"

* * *

 **PRESENT: Thursday, 22 December, 2016**

Despite the fact that it wasn't even 6 PM yet, the darkness of a winter's night had fallen across London. As the car drew near the townhouse, John could see the flashing police and rescue lights bouncing off the houses. The scene seemed distorted and otherworldly somehow.

Oh. Snow.

The other homes were all festive and welcoming with twinkling lights for Christmas.

They hadn't been very good at this part, keeping up appearances with the neighbors. Theirs being the only home on the block with no indication of seasonal merriment.

Home.

This wasn't John's home. Not really. It was a play house, a game.

Not that he hadn't loved the game, and the players for that matter. Yes, the other players were his life, his universe, and that universe seemed to revolve around the gravitational pull of 221b Baker Street.

Mary felt the same way. Though, the game was necessary, the play acting important to the work.

And God did they have fun.

But whatever lay on the other side of that door... That was real. This was real.

It wasn't a game any more.

John stumbled from the car before it was fully stopped, and Mycroft's men stormed out after him. He shoved his way through the crowd that had gathered on the front walk. Someone said his name. He glanced around. Donovan. She looked exhausted. "You okay?" John managed to ask her. She glared at him, taken aback, and shook her head no. With a garbled shout John didn't quite comprehend, Sally grabbed him hard by the elbow and dragged him toward the house.

John knew Sally well enough to see that she wasn't angry, at least not with him. No. This was different. Under the gruff manhandling, Sally was violently trembling. Horrified. Terrified. Weak.

Greg was waiting by the door. He looked... older. Greyer. Not just his hair. His face. His eyes seemed empty. "John." When he spoke his voice cracked and fell instantly hollow. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. We couldn't... We didn't get here in time." John noticed the blood on Greg's hands before the D.I. had a chance to bury them in his pockets. There was no hiding the dark stain up the sleeves and on the front of his shirt. CPR then.

"Where." John was moving automatically now, as Greg guided him through the house that he knew so well, but wasn't really his home.

The kitchen.

Oh God no. Not the kitchen. The one room that felt the most like home.

Mary's favorite room.

So many memories of laughter, scheming and planning. Dinners. Sherlock. Greg and Molly.

Mary. There. Right there. But it wasn't right.

John had been elbow deep in enough fatally wounded soldiers, been on the losing side of patient resuscitation as distraught families watch on, and attended enough crime scenes to know that unless a person actually died peacefully in their sleep, the deceased very seldom just _looked like they were asleep._ He'd been to enough funerals, far too many, to know the sentiment was spoken of the deceased in a shallow attempt for comfort.

So why he hoped against hope that in Mary's last minutes she would have been able to summon some semblance of peace, he had no idea. But the evidence before him made it devastatingly obvious that had not been the case.

She was laid out on the floor. The black coat she wore made it almost possible to imagine she wasn't covered in her own blood; all it took was one glimpse of the crimson pool spread out on the linoleum around her for the illusion to be shattered. The blood smeared mobile was still clutched in her hand. Her eyes were open and her face contorted in terror.

Mary was one of the strongest, most courageous people he had ever known. She deserved better. Not this. Never this. She had come face-to-face with mortality, and had been terrified.

And it wasn't right.

It was disorienting and wrong. Mary was not supposed to look like this. Ever. And especially not here. This place wasn't meant to be a crime scene. The battlefield was never supposed to impose itself here. But it had. The war had caught up to them here.

It was wrong. It was all wrong.

"It's not right... this... it's not..." John was mumbling to himself. He was standing in the kitchen, not on sun scorched sand. Greg was here. And Sherlock. Not soldiers. No orders being shouted. Why... Gun powder. Blood. So _much_ blood. Why. _Why?_

"Why?" John whispered.

Sherlock was knelt over Mary, cold detachment the only thing visible on his face.

"Say again, John?" Greg leaned in closer.

"Why?" He managed a little louder. "Why her?" Louder still. "That's what I said, Greg. WHY? Why her? Sherlock? Why her?"

Everyone stopped what they were doing and gaped openly at the poor doctor who had already suffered so much. But they didn't understand. They would _never_ understand. Sherlock stood slowly, and deliberately stepped too closely into John's personal space.

"Why her, Sherlock? It wasn't supposed to be her." John was shaking now. He didn't feel... anything. He couldn't feel anything at all.

Staring back at him with those calculating eyes, Sherlock considered what John needed to hear. Slowly he removed one of his gloves and wrapped steady fingers around John's wrist. John's pulse was strong and even, very near his resting pulse. A fleeting thought warned Sherlock that he should be worried, but this was John, and if Sherlock knew anything about his friend at all, it was that he had already worked out the answer to his question. He was simply seeking confirmation. That Sherlock could do. He knew what was expected of him by the others in the room. But what was expected of him was not the truth, and it would not help John make sense of this. With a deep breath, Sherlock steeled himself for John's sake, caring little about the fallout. "Because, you chose her John."

A collective gasp rose throughout the room. Greg blanched. "How dare you." He growled.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John. _Keep your eyes fixed on me ,please._ John had no choice but to maintain the eye contact. "But it wasn't ever supposed to be her."

"Statistically speaking, John, it was always either going to be you or her. I..."

"Don't, Sherlock. Please, don't say it." John pleaded.

"I'll not lie to you. I'm relieved the statistics worked in your favor." Sherlock maintained the intimate eye contact, but his tone was cold.

" _Judas priest._ " Greg hissed. "Sherlock, you _can't just_..." He was near hyperventilating.

"No, Greg..." John turned slowly from Sherlock, to look at Mary. "He's... he's right."

"John, shut up. Right now. Just... Shut. Up." Greg was fully hysterical now.

"But, I did. _I_ chose her. I brought her here, to... to us. Led her here. To this. This is..." John looked up at Sherlock, completely numb. "My fault. This _is_ my fault."

And there it was. The horrible, ugly truth was out.

Satisfied the matter was settled, Sherlock spun dramatically back to Mary's body, and continued his examination of the gunshot wound.

The officers, agents and rescue workers stood uncomfortably silent, pressed along the edges of the room.

Greg seethed, clenching and unclenching his fists.

John stood still, as near attention as his numb body would let him. There was something else. Something that needed remembering. "Klein?" John's voice was ragged.

Without even looking up, Sherlock exhaled in frustration. "Gone before we got here." He looked up suddenly, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "The reason we couldn't find where he was staying... Oh, it's so brilliant." Sherlock seemed... not giddy. No. Energized. "He set up camp in your attic. You never use the second story, you're hardly here, and you're too easily distracted when you do come here. You would never notice a ghost on the third floor, so to speak." He pulled his magnifier from his pocket and examined the buckshot pattern in Mary's chest. "Oh, and he left a note."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. A slow agonizing pressure was building behind his eyes. His stomach lurched, and he dove for the sink to be sick.

Exasperated, Sherlock stood. "John. You're contaminating the crime scene."

" _THAT'S. IT._ " Greg roared. He lunged at Sherlock, and knocked him back against the table.

"Boss!" Donovan shouted.

"Get him out of here!" Greg shouted over his shoulder. Donovan stood unmoving, looking perplexed. "John. Get him out of here. Put him in my car. I'll be right out."

"Greg..." John splashed his face and rinsed his mouth.

"I don't want to hear it John. I'm getting you away from _this_." Greg waved his hand to indicate Sherlock. He waited for John to follow reluctantly behind Sally. "You think this is all so bloody brilliant? Having fun? While your best friend's wife is dead in the middle of the kitchen. We all ate dinner here last week, Sherlock. Remember? Well, you can have it. All of it. I can't _do_ this. This is Mary. And John. And all of us. So stay here and just be your cold, heartless self. Have fun skipping around the house. When Donovan comes back in, you answer to her. If you decide to act like a human being, you'll know where to find us."

Greg stormed to a cupboard and slammed the door open, he dug around until he found what he was looking for, and slammed it shut again.

"Oh for God's sake, it's below freezing out, and it's snowing. You aren't really going to drag him up there are you?" Sherlock scoffed.

"We agreed. We made a promise. It's something sacred to us, and we let you in. Take it or leave it, Sherlock." Greg waited just a moment for Sherlock to respond, then turned his back to the room and stormed out of the house.

John was slumped down into the front seat of Greg's car, staring out the window at the townhouse, unseeing and numb. He turned to look at his friend as the D.I. started the car, clearly in a rage.

"Don't." Greg growled. "No talking."

The drive was silent. The roads were mostly clear, due in large part to the temperature and fine dusting of snow.

John maintained his slouch, careful to appear as if he were near catatonic. It wasn't much of a stretch. He watched Greg from the corner of his eye.

Eyes glistening, rimmed in red. Tears, despite his best effort to portray stoic strength. His features were drawn and he worried his lower lip with his teeth.

Heartbroken. Terrified. Enraged. Decimated.

All completely reasonable responses.

Responses John himself couldn't muster. The best he could do was the nauseating ache of guilt roiling in his chest and gut.

Everything else was numb.

Without intending to, John had turned his full attention to watching Greg. The D.I. was acutely aware that he was being scrutinized. Fine. Anything to keep John occupied for a few moments longer. He shuffled his white knuckle grip on the steering wheel slightly.

Both men noticed it at the same time.

He hadn't washed away the blood.

Mary's blood.

Greg cursed under his breath. "John... I..."

"It's fine... I... You..." John stammered as inhaled deeply. "Put the window down a bit, yeah?"

 _Breathe._ There's blood on Greg's hands. _Breathe._ Mary's blood. _**Breathe.**_ My fault. Mary's dead. Greg's wrecked. _BREATHE idiot._ My. Fault. I killed her. _Brea..._

"Stop the car." Frantic, John scrambled to open the door. Greg had barely managed to skid the car to a halt before John tumbled out onto his knees in order to be sick once more. Greg was out and around to John's side nearly as quickly.

As he reached out to rub John's back, Greg caught sight of his blood stained hands. "Oh GOD. I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." Nearing hysterics, Greg knelt down next to his friend and scraped up a dirty, gravel laden handful of slush and snow and began scrubbing at the dried blood in a frenzied panic. "Son of a... please... _please come off..._ John, I'm sorry. It won't come off!"

John heaved twice more before slowly sitting back on his heels. Disoriented, John pressed his palms against his closed eyes and relished the calming chill. It was only then he truly heard his friend's distressed sobbing next to him.

"Greg! Greg you have to stop!" John shouted as he wrenched the D.I.'s hands apart. Mary's dried blood was still caked under his nails in the creases, but it mingled with Greg's own blood where he had scraped the skin raw. Cursing at the sight, John pushed himself up off the ground, dragged Greg up after and shoved him into the passenger seat of the car.

"You can't drive," Greg managed between sobs.

"I _can_ , I just don't. You, on the other hand, are the one who cannot at this moment. Bart's is just around the corner, I'll manage." John slammed the door shut before Greg could argue. The remainder the short drive was uneventful as John forced himself to focus on getting them to Bart's in one piece, and not on Greg's heart-rending sniffles and sighs.

St. Bart's A&E was overflowing. John noted half a dozen sprains or breaks. Everyone else seemed to be suffering from the flu. He gritted his teeth and held his tongue as he ushered Greg through the masses. They managed to go unnoticed by the reception staff, and John _borrowed_ a few things from a supply closet before he shoved Greg into the nearest lift.

The two men remained in silence until they arrived at the top floor. Cautiously, John scanned the hall and then ducked into the nearest unused patient room, urging Greg to hurry after him. He set to work quickly and efficiently scrubbing Greg's hands clean with disinfectant.

"Does Sherlock know?" The question was posed with unexpected timidity.

"Does Sherlock know what?" John patted Greg's hands dry and began his examination. There didn't appear to be any gravel or debris in the scrapes.

"The driving?" Greg winced at John's prodding.

"He found out. The Baskerville case. It's to do with the PTSD. A piece of garbage in the street. Thought it was an IED. Had a bit of a freak out." John shrugged and began applying antibiotic cream to Greg's hands.

"God, John. I had no idea. Sorry, mate." Greg shifted uncomfortably. "So... what's the prognosis doc?"

"No stitches necessary. I am going to wrap your left palm though. If you've got gloves, put them on."

"I'm sorry John. I just..." Greg's voice wavered.

"Not now. We're here, let's do this upstairs." John's voice was gruff. He cleaned up the medical supplies, grabbed some blankets from a linens cart, and led the way to the stairwell up to the roof. He shouldered the door open with a curse as an icy gust of wind stole his breath away.

They wrapped themselves in the blankets and leaned into one another for support as they picked their way across the icy rooftop to _the_ spot.

The place from which Sherlock had jumped.

The place John and Lestrade had mourned, had faced mortality, had fought their demons (and each other), had healed, and had celebrated.

And once again they mourned.

Ever so carefully John sat on the ledge and turned to face out over London, his feet dangling below. Greg took his place to John's left. Neither man spoke.

Greg pulled the smallish bottle of scotch he had retrieved from John's kitchen out of his pocket and snapped the bottle open. He took a large gulp and forced the bottle into the doctor's hands. John hadn't had a drop of alcohol since the single flute of champagne at his wedding. What was it he had promised? Special occasions and weddings.

Well, that didn't bear thinking about right now. He took a quick swallow. The liquor burned all the way down and lay smoldering in his weak stomach. He winced and sat the bottle down. Greg produced a pack of cigarettes and a small box of matches from his pocket. He lit two and handed one to John.

"Had them hidden. At your place. Mary..." Greg huffed. He held his cigarette up in silent tribute, and then hung his head. "God, John. I'm so sorry. I don't even... what am I supposed to do? What do you need?"

Taking a slow drag from the cigarette, simply for the warmth, John considered Greg in earnest. Brothers, no matter what. John knew that Greg loved him. He had loved Mary as his sister.

Greg deserved to know.

"I need..." John faltered. Greg watched him expectantly, concern in his eyes. Clearing his throat, John began again. "I need to tell you the truth."

"John?"

Another drag from the cigarette and John snuffed it out and flicked it away. With a raised hand he declined when Greg offered another. "See, the thing about Mary..."

Everything.

John told Greg everything. How Mary's file had come across his desk at MI6 for risk assessment, and John had withheld some of his finding from Mycroft, because he would have tried to force her into service. How John had manipulated the situation at the clinic so that Mary would be drawn there and so that Sarah would feel obligated to hire her. About Mary's problem with Magnussen, and how he and Sherlock had asked her to work with them. Greg was not shocked to learn, then, that she kept working with them after that case had ended. He _was_ surprised to learn about the marriage.

"So... the wedding was fake? What the hell, John?"

"No, the wedding was completely legitimate. All the proper paperwork was processed. Everything was legal. The marriage itself, that's what wasn't real." John exhaled deeply. "At least, not in sense you're thinking of it. Not like what you and Molly have."

"I don't understand, John. You two, you loved one another, yeah?" Greg lit another cigarette.

"I love Mary… _Loved_ her…" A falter. A crack in the numb emptiness. "No… I love her. I always will. But ours was different than what you and Molly have. I love her the way I love you, or the way I love Sherlock. Not infatuation or _in love with_ , but love all the same. We were cut from the same cloth, she and I. The desire for normalcy, but the innate need for more. We're wired differently than most. A doctor who went to war, and when that ended, took up chasing criminals with Sherlock, and working with the police and MI6. And a nurse who was also a hired assassin. Where Sherlock and I work well because we possess the characteristics the other is lacking and there is strength in those things put together, or you and I work well because we share like experiences and similar goals, Mary and I worked well because we could work as one unit. She was like an extension of myself, like I could be in two places at once almost. And now she's gone. That part of me is gone. Forever. And it is… it's my fault. And..."

A dam of grief broke loose and tears poured freely now. John was overwhelmed as the emotions, the hurt, the fear, the deepness of loss, flooded into the previously numb and vastly hollow cavern within his chest. He heaved a sob, and then another, and then they came of their own volition.

"Come here." Greg had swung his right leg back over the ledge in order to provide more stability. He manhandled John until he was turned completely around, both feet on the rooftop rather than dangling over the street. Then with movements that were both brusque and radiating with genuine care, he pulled his shattered friend to his chest and enveloped him with his arms and blanket. John clung to the front of Greg's coat and wept into his shoulder.

"We loved her too, mate. Molly and me. Sherlock. I think he rather adored her. And you, what you just said, John, it might look different than the love Molly and I have, but it was special, unique to you two. Your marriage was real, and never, ever let yourself believe anything different." Greg didn't try to conceal the sorrow in his voice. And there was no stopping the tears that ran from his own eyes.

"And I understand now, why you feel this is your fault, why you can justify the things Sherlock said. But you can't do that. Where would she be if you hadn't found her? She could've already been dead, or imprisoned in some God forsaken hell hole. You saved her, John. And she died doing the one thing I know she believed in more than anything else. God, it was so evident. She died trying to protect you."

"But she shouldn't have!" John wailed. "Why? Why would she do that?"

"For the same reason I would have done. Sherlock too. This world needs John Watson." Greg's voice broke and he exhaled a deep shuddering breath. John mumbled into his shoulder. "What's that?"

John pulled back minutely, wiped his nose on his blanket, and kept his eyes turned away from Greg. "Sherlock said there was a note."

"There was. But not here." Greg cleared his throat and paused to compose his thoughts. "My friend Jackson from the States found it. Or, rather Klein's sister found it. She went by his place since she hadn't heard from him in weeks, and it was there. She took it to the local police, and Jax found the report in the system." John sat back and searched Greg's face; dread was building in his eyes.

"He, uhm, he mentioned his fiancée was murdered when someone broke into their home one night when she was alone. He said the reason she was alone was because no one would hire a mentally unstable discharged soldier for respectable work, so he had to take a night shift janitor position at the local school. And the reason she was murdered he blamed on the fact that when he tried to buy her a handgun, the dealer ran a background check and then refused to sell him one. He holds you at fault for all of that, mentioned you by name." Greg scrubbed his hand down his face and sighed.

"Klein's fiancée was murdered a year ago today. When he found out you got married, he decided to make you suffer the same way he had." Greg looked John in the eyes, and held on to his shoulders. "He detailed a pretty nasty plan for you, and he's counting on suicide by police. John look at me. He's still out there. We're _going_ to find him. And he's going to pay."

The men jumped as the door to the roof creaked open. "God." Greg panted. "Sherlock, I'm glad you…" He stopped short when something metal caught his eye.

A shotgun barrel.

" _Run, John_." If they stayed together they ran the risk of getting pinned down, separate they had the advantage. He shoved John to their left, and pointed at the bank of air conditioning units. "Stay in the shadows and get low!" Greg jogged in the opposite direction, blatantly making himself visible in the hope that Klein would follow him.

Greg checked over his shoulder to make sure he was being followed, to his relief, he was (Molly was going to kill him herself for that). He pulled his gun out and glanced back again. He didn't see the patch of ice until it was too late. With a sickening crunch Greg landed on his left arm. Definitely broken. He lay there, injured, completely exposed, with Klein lumbering ever closer. readying his shot.

"KEL!" John yelled from behind the hunter. A familiar shot rang out, and the security light nearest Greg's position went dark with an explosion.

"Watson." Klein growled and spun around in a rage. He leveled his shotgun, despite the distance between himself and his target, and fired. John turned and ran as Klein loaded and fired shot after shot after shot.

"JOHN!" Greg screamed as he pulled himself up off the ice and tucked his arm protectively against his abdomen. He watched helplessly as John's movements seemed to grow sluggish, and he finally stumbled behind the cooling unit. Klein kept up his barrage; he was surprisingly quick reloading, and he didn't seem to be aiming at anything exactly, just in John's general direction.

"Stop, Klein! I _will_ shoot you." Greg shouted as he approached Klein from behind.

The enraged man loaded and fired another shot into the cooling unit, sending buckshot ricocheting everywhere.

Greg felt a single sting along his cheek. He took aim and hit Klein in what appeared to be his dominant right shoulder.

Klein roared with rage, staggered, but managed to stay upright. He loaded another shot.

"I said, stop!" Greg yelled once more, and shot Klein through the left thigh.

"Watson!" Klein roared as he dropped to his knees. He tried to level his shotgun toward the cooling unit. "Watson, you come out here and take it like a man!"

With a feral roar and tapestry of obscenities Greg fired once more. "That's for Mary!" He hit his mark in the middle of Klein's back. As the man began to slump forward, Greg advanced on him and fired once more. "And that's for John!" Klein was face down and unmoving. Greg wrenched the shotgun away and tossed it aside. Klein groaned.

Staring down at the man bleeding out at his feet, Greg felt something inside snap. This man had attempted to destroy the only family he had. He had stolen Mary away. John was injured, and emotionally decimated. This was no man. This was a beast. A rabid beast, and he… he deserved…

"Lestrade! Stop!" Sherlock had burst through the rooftop door and witnessed each shot Greg had taken at Klein. It was justified. He had warned the man. Sherlock would have relished an opportunity to take a shot as well. But the man was down, probably already dead. Sherlock sprinted to Greg's side, and carefully placed a hand on his forearm. "Greg. Where is John?"

"Sherlock?" Greg started at the touch. "When... " He looked down at the gun he had aimed at Klein's head, then back at Sherlock.

"He's dead, Greg." Sherlock crouched down and felt for a pulse to confirm. He found none. "It's over. You stopped him." He stood fully upright, took the gun from Greg's hand, and turned to look him in the eyes. "He's dead."

With a slight nod, Greg whispered, "He's dead. Klein's dead."

"Greg, where is John?" Sherlock's tone to that point had been controlled, but he couldn't hide the edge of fear that crept in.

Cursing under his breath, Greg turned to the cooling unit. "He's back there. I think he's hit."

Sherlock growled and started to charge behind the unit.

"Wait!" The D.I. grabbed the consulting detective by the sleeve. "This might… This could be disorienting for John. If he has been shot, and he felt like he was trapped while Klein was still firing, he could be having a flashback to Afghanistan. Or he could just be ready to shoot the next person he sees." Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed in frustration. "Let me go first, yeah?"

"John?" Greg stepped to the corner of the cooling unit, but stayed out of John's line of sight. "John, can you hear me? This is Greg. Sherlock's with me. We need to come back there and get you out, okay?"

John moaned.

"John?" Sherlock inched closer to the corner. "John, we're going to come back there now."

"Sherlock?" John's voice sounded weak, labored. "Greg, I need… Can you…" Another moan.

Sherlock lunged around the cooling unit, Greg close behind, using his mobile to light the area.

John was propped up in the corner, his right arm slung up onto the low wall of the ledge to help him stay upright. His gun was in his left hand, but the left arm hung limp at his side, and the white blanket bunched around him was soaked in crimson, the heat from John's life seeping out of his body causing little wisps of steam to rise as the blood mingled with the trace remnants of snow. His Band of Brothers were knelt at his side in an instant.

"We have to get him downstairs." Greg was trying his best to remember his training. "Sherlock, can you get his shoulders, and I'll…"

"No… don't move. Buckshot…" John had to pause to catch his breath. "It moves too. Wait for help."

Greg and Sherlock shared a sideways glance, and Greg fumbled for his phone. He called down to the A&E and tried to explain the situation. He only ended up screaming that they needed to get a trauma team with a gurney up to the roof immediately. He called Sally and told her to send a team to clear the scene and to process Klein's body.

"John." Sherlock had taken the gun from John's hand, draped his great coat over his shivering friend, and held tight to his left hand. "John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Mary, and about what I said, and…"

"Shhh. Sherlock, no." John feebly shook his head. "You said… What you said was true." He inhaled deliberately. "I chose her…"

"And she chose you." Sherlock sniffed as he patted John's hand.

"And you…" John forced a weak smile. "Mary chose you too Sherlock. Loved you too."

Sherlock sat back on his heels, taken aback by the revelation. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. "I…" He stumbled for words. "And I her," Sherlock whispered. He wiped his eyes with one hand and clung to John with the other, sliding fingers up to feel his friend's pulse.

"Are you… are you going to be okay, John?" Sherlock's voice wavered, and he peered into John's eyes, searching. "You've lost a lot of blood. The cold is good… Slows the blood flow."

John chuckled and was rewarded with a fresh wave of pain. He winced and squeezed Sherlock's hand. He struggled to organize his thoughts over the pain. "I'm a doctor Sherlock… I know… I know how cold works… Miss Afghanistan right now… Warmth." He shifted slightly to take the strain off his aching right shoulder. "I'll be fine Sherlock… Kel was too far away… Nothing too deep… Just a lot… Mostly left side and back… Can ask the doctor to save them for you…"

"Oh God." Greg came back around the corner with the trauma team just then.

"Ah, no. No, thanks for the very… _thoughtful_ offer John, but I'd really rather never see large game pellets ever again." Sherlock smiled sadly at his best friend as he stepped back to let the doctors and nurses in.

"Sherlock?" John called over the medical team.

"I'm here John. Greg's right here too. We aren't going anywhere."

"Mary… Her file…" John cried out in pain as the medical team lifted him to the gurney and started to wheel him toward the door.

"It's secure. We'll make arrangements tomorrow John. Right now, we have to help you." Sherlock reassured his friend, and ruffled his hair as the gurney rolled by. "I'll be down soon, and I'll see you when you wake up."

Sherlock turned to Greg. "He told you."

Greg hummed confirmation. "Probably not everything, but enough. Doesn't really change anything. A few things make a little more sense now. Won't say a word."

"You can tell Molly. I know she can keep a secret."

"That she can." Greg huffed a laugh and shook his head. "So, what do we do now? How do we do this, Sherlock?"

"I... " Sherlock shrugged and sighed. "I was hoping to defer to your experience with John in mourning."

"Okay, first, I'm going to remember _that_ forever, Sherlock Holmes deferring a problem to someone else. No one will believe me." He offered Sherlock a lopsided smile and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But the last time was different. He had hope, at least to start with, that you were coming back. And even after that was gone, he had to deal with the fact that you left, you made that choice." Greg shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock looked nauseated.

"This time, Mary was stolen away. There isn't any reason to hope she'll return." Greg's voice caught, and he inhaled deeply before he continued. " And it wasn't a choice she could make, or that he could influence at all. She's just gone, in one of the most sudden and traumatic fashions possible."

Sherlock and Greg stood face to face, broken hearts evident to anyone who cared to pay them any mind as Sally and her team processed the scene.

"We'll just have to do it together. Make arrangements. Support John. And each other. Together." Greg ran his right hand over his hair and shivered.

"Together." Sherlock repeated softly. He put his arm around Greg's shoulders and started walking him to the door.

"Sherlock… I need to stay. Sally will need…" Greg tried to shove Sherlock away.

"You can give your statement later. I saw the whole thing. You clearly have a broken arm, and you've a cut on your face from a stray pellet." Sherlock did not relent, despite Greg's attempts to escape. "John is going to need you well, which means I need to get you off this roof."

Greg slumped against his friend and let Sherlock lead the way. "Sherlock, how is this going to be okay? Are we going to be all right?"

Sherlock sighed. "I have it on good authority that _we are going to be fine._ "


	7. 19 October, 2024

**Saturday 19 October, 2024**

John couldn't remember why it had been so important for Sherlock to chase the man down the alley. A case, of course. But the details were fuzzy.

Nothing new there, really. Even after all those years. Sherlock still had a way of assuming John noticed the same obscure, improbable minutiae he had, and John still had a way of misinterpreting what Sherlock considered tediously obvious.

Though at the moment in question, John was doing very well just to be sitting upright.

Trauma had a way of doing that.

What John _did_ remember was that it was raining. Had been. For days. Relentlessly. It seemed an eternity since he had last been dry or warm. Or had a hot cuppa.

He remembered calling Greg as he ran, straining to spot Sherlock's form through the shadows and the downpour.

"We're close. Don't do anything stupid." It's how Greg had taken to ending the majority of calls exchanged between himself and the doctor.

Stupidity reigned supreme.

"Too late." John's patented sign off.

He recalled all of this huddled in the back of a cab. Soaked to his core, freezing, and covered in blood; he didn't even attempt to still the trembling. It was possible he was shivering because of the state he was in, but he didn't think so.

This was something else entirely.

"Wait, stop here. Right here," John forced the words from his raw throat and chattering teeth. "I'll just be a minute. Keep... just... don't leave," he pleaded with the driver.

Worried eyes met his in the rear view mirror. It was no small miracle the driver had actually let him in the car looking the way he did. "All right, mate. I'll be right here."

Attempting to run, but mostly just stumbling along, John fumbled at the door, pulling clumsily at the handle several times before the thought crossed his mind to push. The tinny clank of the bell above his head and the brightness of the manufactured lights inside the small shop were a shock to his senses.

"Doctor Watson!" Came a startled cry from behind the counter. Frail Mr. Nguyen, the owner of the pagoda wiped his hands on his apron and rushed around the counter. "Anh! Anh, Doctor Watson needs help! Get blankets. And tea. Run!" Mr. Nguyen commanded his teenage granddaughter, who had been sweeping in the corner.

"No, no... Mr. Nguyen. I just need a few things," John made his way to the wall cooler and paused only briefly before making his selection. "I'm okay, Annie. You don't have to get me anything," he made eye contact with the clearly frightened girl tightly gripping her broom. He glanced down at the state of his rain soaked, blood stained clothes. Right. He certainly didn't _look_ okay. John glanced around the shop. There were only two other customers.

All eyes were on him.

"I'm sorry, I'm kind of in a rush." John sat the six pack of ale on the counter. No scotch. It had been so long since he'd been out to a pub night, he wasn't sure what he even liked anymore. This would have to do.

With an unsteady hand he indicated to the racks of cigarettes. "Second row down, third from the left. Red label. Can I get one pack please?" The pagoda was one of few places left in London John even knew of that carried the hated and heavily banned indulgence. He hated that he knew where to find them; in his defense, it had been for a case and the blame could be placed solely on Sherlock.

"Doctor?" Mr. Nguyen's eyes widened. Taking in the distress on John's face, he decided against saying anything more, and gingerly placed the packet on the counter.

"Do you have any matches?" John's voice cracked as he asked the question, and he blinked against the tears that threatened to spill at any moment. Mr. Nguyen shook his head, but indicated a small display of lighters.

Panic rising, John glanced at the wall clock. He had to hurry. "No... it has to be matches. Does anyone have any matches?" He turned to the other customers. "Please." He was acutely aware he both looked and sounded utterly pathetic.

"Here dear," a tiny white haired woman approached him cautiously and placed a book of matches she had fished from her purse - a relic of a past love - into his hand. Her eyes only lingered a moment on the blood caked under his nails. Something in her concerned eyes reminded him of Mrs. Hudson and her not-your-housekeeper way of doting. He wanted nothing more than to hug her, to be embraced in return, and let this dear matronly woman comfort him. But he wouldn't dare spoil her finely pressed dress.

He ducked his head and mumbled his thanks. Shoving the matches in his pocket, John dug for his wallet. He had a wad of damp bills, but it was only enough for his cab fare.

His wallet. It had been in his pocket with his keys and mobile.

Oh.

John fought the urge to curse. He may have looked like a stark raving lunatic, but there was no need to behave as such.

The pocket in question was in his coat. And his coat was lying abandoned in a bloody, filthy puddle in a God forsaken alley. He sighed, and turned to leave.

"Sorry, Mr. Nguyen, I don't have my wallet. I wasted your time and worried you for nothing. Sorry... sorry." He hung his head and couldn't help it when an errant tear tracked down his filthy face.

"Doctor Watson? Here. Please... please, take this. It's a gift," Anh had found her voice, timid yet clear. She had placed the six pack and the cigarettes in a brown paper bag, and thrust it towards him.

"Oh, Annie, no. I can't. I can't pay." John shrugged his shoulders, defeated.

Mr. Nguyen took the bag and shoved it into John's hands. He tenderly patted John's shoulder. "You and Mr. Holmes helped us once. Please, let me do this for you."

Stifling a sob, John nodded quickly. "Thanks... Thank you." He hugged the bag to himself, glanced at the clock, and dashed back out into the rain.

"St. Bart's, please. As quickly as possible." John was barely in the cab before he made his request. "Please hurry."

With a sympathetic nod, the cabbie took off. John watched familiar streets pass by, not really recognizing any of it. The street lamps and headlights were all muted in the rain, causing the dark of night to seem even blacker, and more ominous, than John had ever experienced within the confines of this city that he loved. Everything seemed so off, so _wrong_.

London would never be right again.

How? What had happened? How had everything gone so wrong?

It was still just a blur. He couldn't piece it all together, couldn't recall the timeline. The diagnostician in him began compiling a list.

 _1\. He never did catch up with Sherlock in the alley. God. Where was Sherlock? This was the first coherent thought he'd even had of him since he followed him into the ambush._

 _2\. There was a feeling of real and true panic when he had realized he was pinned down, alone, behind the skip in a pitch dark alley. He hadn't been able to determine how many shooters there were, or even where they were exactly (high windows, or rooftops he supposed, but couldn't be certain), just that the frequency of the shots indicated there were a lot of them, and they were professionally armed. The rain was so heavy it had distorted and muffled the concussive echo of the gunshots, and the lightning had proven disorienting in trying to spot the shooters._

 _3\. He never had an opportunity to fire a shot. No. Scratch that. He didn't fire a shot because Sherlock had his gun. Right. That explained a lot._

 _4\. When the flashing police lights started bouncing off the walls of the alley, he remembered screaming for Greg to stay away, to wait for backup. The strobes had added to the disorienting effect of the rain and lightning._

 _5\. At some point Sally Donovan was sitting flat on her bum in the dirty alley, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped protectively around her legs, rocking and mumbling to herself, completely unaware of the rain and chaos around her. She hadn't been injured, so he just walked away and left her sitting there._

"St. Bart's, mate," the driver interrupted John's list making. "Main entrance, or A&E?"

"What time is it?"

"11:38 pm."

"A&E then." John exhaled deeply. This late, the main entrance would be locked. Without his credentials, which were in his wallet in the alley, and being covered in blood, he didn't figure security would be inclined to buzz him in. The A&E entrance was always open, and he knew most everyone who worked back there.

As the cab came to a stop, John pulled the wad of cash from his pocket, and with shaking hands, attempted, and failed miserably, to sort the bills.

"Forget it, son." The driver was hardly older than John. "I don't want your money. You've been through hell, whatever that is, tonight. Just go," the driver turned back to look at John. "I don't know what you're gonna go do now, but you be careful, you hear me?" He stared at John, unblinking, daring him to argue back.

John's composure broke in that instant, and tears ran unchecked down his face. "I..." He didn't attempt to stifle the sob. "Thank you." He looked down at his blood stained hands. "God, I can't even shake your hand."

The driver smiled a sad little smile, and saluted John. A brief flash of clarity shone in John's eyes, and he quickly saluted back. "Thought so," the cabbie nodded knowingly, compassion in his eyes. "Seen too many soldiers with that look. I'm sorry about your mate." Startled, John looked up, and he started to speak, but the cabbie interrupted, "Never mind all that. You go now. And son, don't go and do something he would regret. Honor him, don't shame his memory."

"Yes, sir," John sniffed, trying, unsuccessfully, to compose himself. Sliding out of the car with the brown paper bag hugged tightly to his chest, he looked back and mouthed "Thank you," then hurried to the entrance.

The waiting area was mostly empty John noted with some relief. He glanced at the wall clock. 11:44. He attempted to duck past the reception desk without being noticed.

"Doctor Watson? Oh my God, are you okay? What happened?"

John sighed as a crowd of nurses and aides started gathering behind the reception desk. He didn't have the time, nor the energy, to explain, so he just held up one blood stained hand and shook his head to say "no." Before anyone could question him further he sprinted down a hall to the nearest bank of lifts. He pressed the button and waited.

Just as the door began to slide open, Molly appeared at the far end of the hall. She spotted John and gasped. "John? Are you... Where's... I just... I..." She picked up her pace to cover the distance between them.

Oh God. She didn't know. GOD. _Why didn't she know?_

John swore under his breath.

He should probably have been the one to tell her.

He _wanted_ to tell her. To hold her up when she would inevitably collapse. Let her weep on his shoulder. Or pound her fists on his chest when he willingly, and deservedly, took the blame.

There was a time when he would have done anything just to live up to the idea of the man everyone seemed to think he was.

But he just couldn't.

He didn't have it in him anymore.

Maybe never again.

He was a failure.

Weak.

John hadn't meant to make eye contact with Molly, but he couldn't help it. And what she saw there stopped her in her tracks. Rather, what she didn't see there. It seemed the life had been completely drained from the vibrant blue, leaving behind despairingly, achingly dull grey.

"J-john?"

"I'm so sorry Molly," John managed, ragged, just barely above a whisper, as he ducked into the lift and frantically pressed the door close button. He heard her shout his name and then curse. Despite everything he choked out a laugh at that. Poor Molly. Sherlock had wrecked her self esteem all those years ago. John had ruined her sweet, verging on naïve, vocabulary. And now this. He wasn't sure her heart was going to survive this one.

He wasn't so sure his heart would survive either.

The lift door opened to the top floor, and John stepped out cautiously. The lights were dimmed so that patients could sleep, and there didn't seem to be much foot traffic in the hall. He located a wall clock. 11:49. He made his way as quietly as he could to the stairwell, and charged headlong up to the rooftop. Opening the door, he was stunned by the torrential rain still falling.

With more purpose than he'd felt since he stumbled out from that alley, John made his way to the ledge.

To the spot.

The spot that was synonymous with the greatest hurts, the deepest wounds, he had suffered in his life.

The spot where Sherlock had…

No. Don't.

And where he and Greg had…

God. _Please,_ just stop.

As he looked around, his emotions got the better of him once again, and he broke down and wept openly. Unashamed. John realized he had never stopped shaking, and suddenly his legs gave out. He expected a familiar twinge of pain to radiate up his right leg; the pain he experienced was different, far worse. He wasn't sure how he'd been standing at all. John twisted around and managed to sit down hard on the roof. The ledge was high enough that he was able to lean back against the short wall for support.

The brown paper bag in his arms had practically dissolved in the rain. He sat the package down, and fumbled with the cellophane wrapper around the pack of cigarettes. Finally getting one free, he prayed the matches were still dry. It took a few tries, but he finally got the thing lit, and he took a deep drag off of it. He didn't cough as he usually did. He actually felt a few seconds of warmth for the first time in... how long? Days?

No. No, it had only been not quite 36 hours.

Agonizingly long and torturous hours.

 _And only two hours since..._

John snatched a can from the mess of a bag, snapped it open, and downed the whole thing. He couldn't remember if he'd had anything to eat or drink recently. He'd been dashing about London like a madman, chasing after Sherlock since yesterday afternoon. He figured he probably hadn't had anything proper at least since then. Nicotine and alcohol would have to suffice.

Tossing the empty can aside, he opened another. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. He drank down as much as he could in one drink and leaned his head back, exposing his face to the rain.

Maybe some of the blood and grime would wash away.

He reached for the pack of cigarettes. They were getting soggy. Nothing to be done about that now. The matches were completely ruined. He tried to light another cigarette with the embers of the spent one, but every one in the pack was soaked through. In disgust he flicked the glowing butt away. He couldn't even do this one thing right.

Nothing about any of this was right.

Leaning his head back once more, he screamed into the flowing inky blackness of the night sky as he had never screamed before.

Not when he had been shot in Afghanistan.

Not when Sherlock had jumped.

Not even when Mary had been murdered.

This scream was primal in its base; a culmination of those past screams, and all the screams that had been repressed in a ludicrous self-imposed demand for propriety. A scream that started in the very depths of his soul, and drudged up with it every sorrow, every hurt, every wrong, every nightmare, and every fear. It tore through his chest and splintered off pieces of his fragile heart. The midnight sky was shattered apart by the lightning all around him, and the heavy clouds continued to release the floods, as if their only purpose was to silence John's anguish by drowning him. So he raged right back at the storm, cracking to pieces in his own way as he screamed his lungs out. The falling rain had nothing on the deluge that poured from his eyes.

He screamed until he had no breath left, and his lungs could no longer handle the sharp intake of air required to continue.

He screamed until his throat was raw and his vocal cords gave out.

He screamed until his chapped lips cracked and bled.

And when he couldn't scream any more, he cursed. Every foul thing he had ever heard, and a few he had made up on his own. He swore in every language he knew. When he had exhausted his extensive vocabulary, he swallowed down what was left in the can at his side.

It was watered down from the rain. He cursed the rain.

The alcohol still burned his raw lips and throat. He cursed the alcohol, even as he opened another and forced it down too.

John was still shaking, but he didn't feel cold any longer. He didn't feel much of anything really. Everything was just kind of... fuzzy. Good. He was so tired of feeling cold.

So tired of feeling.

So tired.

So...

...going to die of hypothermia. The doctor part of John's mind was fighting to break through the murkiness, but everything was just... so... slow. _Well done, idiot, you're in full blown shock now. And no way to get help,_ the doctor in his head chided him. "Oh shut up," he muttered out loud.

God, he was irritating even to himself. How could anyone ever stand to be around him?

Willing his fingers to work, John fumbled after another beer and finally got it open. There was no controlling the tremor in his hands. If he tried to set the can down, he'd probably spill it. Logical conclusion? Drink it all. _Bloody brilliant, Watson. Wouldn't want shock and hypothermia to be the only cause of death. Better add alcohol poisoning for good measure._

"Shut up. Please... just shut up..." John begged the nagging in his head to stop. He threw the empty can in his hand as hard as he could, didn't really matter where, and picked up another can. He took a long drink, and suddenly even the alcohol turned against him. His stomach churned.

Just as well. If he was going to die, just get it over with.

 _Hmm. Bit not good, that. It's a shame, you're usually more rational than this John._ Huh. John's inner Sherlock was talking now. He took another drink, just out of spite, not really sure who it was he was punishing. He dropped the empty can off to the side, and considered the last one.

One left. He could do it.

Or not. His stomach was truly angry now.

Leaning with his back against the wall, he pulled his knees up towards his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs, and rested his forehead on his knee. He knew he was in shock because his shoulders should have been aching, but he didn't feel a thing.

"Could really use a blanket right now," he whispered. John imagined Greg offering him a shock blanket, because that was what they did. They joked about "that one time" Sherlock had a shock blanket, and then it became their little inside joke, a coping mechanism when everything would go sideways, just like it always seemed to. John got a paper cut once, and Greg offered to run and get him a blanket. Sherlock said something hateful and bruised Greg's ego in front of a group of his officers. When Greg turned in exasperation to John, John actually had a blanket in hand.

John sniffed, and then laughed. And then he couldn't stop laughing. But there was no joy in this laughter. This laughter was the manic kind of laughter that hurts instead of heals, and if one really listens, it doesn't sound all that different from sobbing.

"God, Greg. Why couldn't you just listen to me?" He squeezed his eyes tight shut, but the tears wouldn't stop. How did he even have any tears left?

And locked up in his own mind, with the rain still pouring down, he found himself back in that horrid alley, unarmed and alone. Wartime training only helped if you had the equipment you needed. He had nothing to his advantage. He could hear Greg and the others charging down the alley. John had been certain he was going to die behind that skip, there wasn't any reason Greg, or Sally, or anyone else should die too.

"Greg, don't come any closer!" John had shouted. "There are too many of them, they're shooting down from above. Wait for backup!"

Several shots were fired in John's direction. He took cover just in time, but it was barely a miss. Bits of shattered brick exploded around his head.

"John!" Greg had screamed.

"I'm okay! I'm fine. Please, for the love of God, stay back!" John pleaded in response.

"Sally's calling for back up, John. Where's Sherlock?"

"No bloody idea. And he's got my gun, so I'm a sitting duck in here." That had been a mistake. There was another round of gunfire, only this time one of the bullets found its mark. Nothing serious he convinced himself. Outer right thigh. There wasn't even _that_ much blood. Good. Major veins and arteries still intact. He wouldn't bleed out.

He'd definitely have a limp now.

The real problem was not that he had been hit. The issue was that the body has certain reflexes, and one of the things his body had learned experience in was being shot. He instantly tensed and sucked in a sharp breath, not so much in pain, though it did hurt (bullets had a way of doing that), but just out of the shock of actually having been shot. Again.

He admirably managed to keep from crying out.

Unfortunately, Greg knew John well enough to know that when he heard that sharp intake of breath something was not right. There was a splash and the sound of feet running through puddles.

John knew immediately that Greg had heard him.

"NO! Greg, no!" John wailed before he even saw him. Suddenly Greg was around the corner. Only a few steps away.

Then John could only watch in horror as a volley of bullets rained down.

Kevlar can only do so much... and there is precious little that can be done for the unfortunate soul who has a femoral artery nicked by one bullet, and a second bullet pass clean through his esophagus and rip through a jugular vein. Especially when the only person with any medical experience is trapped behind a skip, screaming obscenities because he has no other weapon in his arsenal.

By the time Sally and the other officers charged into the alley, and began firing blindly up into the rooftops, it was already too late.

It was all in how he fell.

When a person is trying to avoid injury during a fall, they reflexively reach out to brace themselves, often causing extremity damage.

If an individual has been injured before falling, they curl in on the injured area, in order to provide a buffer.

Greg had done neither of those things. One instant he was alive and upright, and the next he was heaped on the ground. The world didn't grind to a halt, there was no slow-motion, nor did the sound drop out. It wasn't graceful or poetic, as popular culture would have one believe.

For just the briefest of moments John felt as if someone had dropped this cursed, dank corner of London, storm clouds and all, directly in the center of the Helmand Province. There was the ineffective exchange of round after round of gunfire. Screaming. So much blood. It was all too familiar. Except these weren't soldiers. These were colleagues and friends.

And Greg.

His brother.

Despite his field training taking over, the obvious futility of triage being evident, John lunged out from his hiding place and knelt over Greg, trembling fingers assessing the damage.

No pulse.

No breath.

Pupils unresponsive.

He had to get the vest off.

 _Stand down, Watson. It'll do no good._ He could hear the logical military part of his brain barking orders.

Defiantly, John pulled his pocket knife from his jacket and cut the straps on Greg's bulletproof vest. Yanking it away unceremoniously, he tossed it aside.

There was so much blood. Greg was completely covered in it. The longer John worked over Greg's body, the more of Greg's blood his own clothes soaked up. And it was still raining so hard, the blood was running in little rivers away from them, staining every puddle it came in contact with.

When someone finally got an emergency light set up, John thought it looked like a massacre had happened there, when really only one other officer had been hit, non-fatally.

He knew it would make no difference, but John took off his coat and placed it under Greg's head. The ground was too cold and filthy just to leave the man lying there that way. He pulled off his rain soaked jumper and clumsily wrapped it around the leg wound.

Greg wasn't bleeding any more. John ignored the observation that there likely wasn't anything left for him to bleed out.

He couldn't stop himself. John began inspecting the neck wound. Feverishly working to clear the airway. Anything. He had to keep his hands moving.

He vaguely noticed that the gunfire had stopped.

Good. They were safe now.

John began chest compressions.

" 8..."

He could hear voices murmuring around him. He glanced up long enough to see every eye on him.

"...15 16 17 18 19..."

"Watson," a familiar voice. Dimmock.

"No." John growled resolutely. He kept going.

" _John_." Firmer.

"NO."

A hand on his shoulder. John wrenched away. "Dimmock, I swear to God if you don't step off right now, I. Will. Kill. You."

"Watson, you're bleeding. You're hit too. Let the medics..."

John jumped to his feet, and before Dimmock even had time to react, John had pinned him to the wall and was ready to take a swing.

John paused, looked at his blood stained fist, and back at Dimmock.

"I know, Watson. I get it. He's..." Dimmock's voice cracked.

John turned back toward Greg. No one else had moved. A few eyes registered pity for poor delusional John, but in the majority of faces he could see silent lips moving, begging him to keep trying, to not give up.

This was, after all, Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard's finest. C.I. Lestrade was never meant to bleed out in a dirty alley, he was destined for greatness. His promotion was set for the next month. This was never how Greg Lestrade was supposed to end.

And wasn't that Captain John Watson, _the_ Doctor Watson? The Watson who was a war hero, who saved lives, solved mysteries, and reigned in consulting detectives? Certainly if anyone could fix this, it had to be him.

But Greg Lestrade _did_ bleed out in a dirty alley.

And John Watson _could not_ fix it.

He crouched down next to his lifeless friend, and tenderly took Greg's still, cold hand in his own. Gingerly he reached up and closed Greg's eyelids over his hollow empty eyes. John leaned down and brushed a tender kiss of brotherly love on Greg's forehead. "You _idiot,_ " John whispered in the unhearing ear. "What are we supposed to do now? I don't know what to do now, Greg. How do I..." He knelt there and wept over his friend until medics pulled him away and tried to guide him to a waiting ambulance.

"NO! What are you... Let me go... No! NO..." John kicked and shoved and fought his way out of the firm grasp of the medics.

He couldn't stay there. He had to get to St. Bart's. He had promised Greg. They had sworn to each other. No matter what. It had to be now. The hour was late, he had to hurry and get there while today was still today.

So there John sat, on the rooftop of St. Bart's. Rain drenched, in shock, and not anywhere near drunk enough. Alone.

It had been twelve years since he'd had to mourn by himself. All those years Greg had been the one to help him muddle through the messy, human, emotional _stuff_.

Not that Sherlock was incapable. Sherlock helped in his own way, but usually his way was brilliant and calculated. And sometimes, calculated doesn't comfort the way it looks like it should on paper, or in a mind palace.

If Sherlock was the head, and John the heart, then Greg had been absolutely everything else. The strong hands that pulled Sherlock up out of addiction. The broad shoulders that had helped carry the weight of John's grief so many, many times. The steady voice of reason. The ready feet that knew when to stand their ground, and when to step aside and let someone else take the lead.

" _Oi, you're getting awfully maudlin in your old age."_

John kept his head resting on his knees, but turned his face to the right in time to see Greg use one of the soggy matches to light a sodden cigarette. "You're not really here," John managed to force a raspy whisper.

" _Hmm. No."_

John closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "So what, you're going to haunt me now? Is this some kind of weird Shakespeare thing? Horatio back from the grave or something?"

" _What? God, you never paid attention at all, did you? Horatio was the one who didn't die. No wonder Sherlock gets so frustrated with you."_

"You're here to insult me, then. I've got Sherlock for that, thanks." John forced one eye open and warily looked Greg up and down. He looked much the same as he had in the alley, neck and leg wounds gaping, blood stained clothes, hollow lifeless eyes. "Couldn't have showed up looking like your old self?"

" _This is YOUR subconscious. I had nothing to do with the choice."_

"And why exactly did my subconscious send you here?" John let his eyes drift back closed and sighed. He was so tired. And something was troubling him about Greg's presence, but he couldn't quite reason it out. Just. Too. Tired.

" _You shouldn't have come here."_

"I pro… Promised you. We signed. And the…" John couldn't summon the correct words. He pantomimed shaking hands lamely with his frigid, trembling right hand. "Why're you here?"

" _To keep you from doing something stupid. Like dying."_

"'Tis but a scratch,'" John mumbled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

 _"Don't."_

"'Just a flesh wound.'"

 _"Idiot. A flesh wound caused by a bullet, which is still lodged in there by the way, and has drained approximately 1.37 liters of blood from your body. Not to mention the fact that you are sitting in the pouring rain, and that the temperature of the water soaking you through is 10 degrees Celsius. Your blood alcohol level is 0.110%, achieved in less than 45 minutes. And you've not taken the antibiotics necessary to maintain your immune system for nearly 48 hours. Gunshot wound resulting in hypovolemic shock. Hypothermia. Alcohol poisoning. Sepsis. You're dying."_

"Don't forget broken heart." John's breath hitched painfully. He refused to make eye contact with the apparition. "How'd you know all that... _stuff_ anyway?"

 _"_ _ **Your**_ _subconscious, remember?"_

John forced his eyes open and squinted at Greg. "What would it matter if I died?"

" _The world needs John Watson."_

Forcing a breathy laugh, John closed his eyes again. "Well, John Watson nee... needs Greg Lestrade, and that's... It's just too bloody bad now, yeah?... The world can... sod off." He considered opening his eyes to glare at Greg, but the effort just seemed too much.

" _Molly needs you. And our girls."_

Greg was starting to sound less like himself, more like an old vinyl album being played too slow. "S'my fault. Molly is... gonna hate me…" John forced his eyes open once more. Greg was starting to look blurry. "Please... _please._ Don't go..."

 _"I'm already gone, John."_

"Please..." Against his will, John's eyes drifted shut once more.

" _Sherlock needs you."_

"Doesn't. He… doesn't." John knew that somewhere, in some odd corner of his mind, he must have an organized and tidy list of reasons why Sherlock Holmes did not need John Watson. If he could just sleep for a few minutes… Just a few…

" _Sherlock needs you to stay awake, John."_

"Tired." John felt himself slipping. He wasn't sure to where, but it wasn't so bad.

Maybe that was a bit not good. But he couldn't be be bothered to care anymore.

" _John, stay awake. Wake up."_

Greg sounded slightly panicked. No, it wasn't Greg. Someone else's voice was mixing with Greg's. That other voice, that was the one that was nearing hysterics.

" _John? John, wake up. You have to wake up. You can't… Just, stop this. Wake up, do you hear me? John. JOHN."_

The second voice was stronger than Greg's. Closer now. John could feel it. No, that wasn't right was it? Could he feel a voice?

"John. Please. Wake up. Help is coming. Just wake up, John." The voice was so close. It sounded angry? Yes, a little. Hmm, disappointed. And definitely concerned. Afraid.

He couldn't hear Greg at all anymore.

Greg was gone.

John's heart stuttered at the realization.

He felt reasonably certain the human heart wasn't meant to stutter. Was it medically possible for his heart to literally be broken?

It was all a bit _not_ good.

"John." The voice was panicking again, which set John to panicking. "John Hamish Watson, you breathe."

Breathing. John wanted to breathe. It was exhausting, and at the moment, excruciating. But the voice wanted him to breathe, and he very desperately did not want to disappoint that voice. Not again.

Then John was falling. But no, that wasn't right at all. The voice was dragging him up. Lifting him, supporting him. And he wanted to help the voice, but he couldn't. God, his leg hurt so bloody badly, but he couldn't remember any of the really good obscenities.

Then the voice was cursing. Something was taking too long. He growled such vulgarities as they staggered along. And wasn't it something? To hear that posh, proper, rumbling voice full of concern for him, and swearing enough for the both of them. And there wasn't much he could do but huff a laugh about that.

But his laugh sounded more like a gasp than a laugh, and the voice misinterpreted. "John, please. Just hold on. I can't lose you too."

Oh.

OH.

 _sherlock... i'm trying. for you. i'm trying... i AM trying, Sherlock... It's so hard. Look, Sherlock... I'm breathing... for you I am trying..._ "Sher... sh..."

"John!" A sob more than a declaration. A single syllable infused with more emotion than could ever hope to be recorded, followed by a mumbled, frantic litany of _please. pleasepleasepleaseplease. John please._

It was a shock to John's system as they transitioned from the pouring frigid rain to the relative dry of the stairwell down from the rooftop. His body shook violently with the temperature change. Sherlock only nearly stumbled once as he mostly carried (doing his best not to drag) John down the steps.

A nurse burst through the door as they reached the bottom of the steps, followed by an entire team. Sherlock was relieved of his burden, despite his threats and insults, and John was whisked to the gurney waiting in the hallway. Even as the team sprinted along the corridor to the lifts, hands were poking and prodding, attaching oxygen, starting IV lines, and cutting away sodden blood soaked clothing.

Be it from the fact that he was thoroughly soaked and freezing, or the fact that he was now stained with the blood of his best friend, Sherlock stood helplessly quaking as he watched John be loaded into a lift to be rushed off to surgery. Several moments later, a matronly nurse assigned to that floor took pity on the stunned, pathetic, dripping man. She discovered the floor where he could eventually see John, escorted him to a family waiting area, and located a set of scrubs as well as a not terrible cup of hot tea for him.

"Can I call anyone for you, dear?"

Sherlock's brow creased as he looked at her with some confusion. Why would he need to call anyone? Lestrade would be here any moment, he was sure. Lestrade always came, especially where John was involved. It was rather surprising Lestrade wasn't already...

Sherlock blanched. He collapsed into the nearest molded plastic chair, leaned his head toward his knees, and tugged at his hair with both hands.

Oh God. ohgodohgodohgod. Greg. _OH. GOD._

A hand landed gently on his shoulder.

Mycroft.

The elder Holmes was speaking softly to the nurse, who smiled wistfully down at Sherlock, and left them to be alone.

"Brother," Mycroft's tone was soft.

"Greg," was all Sherlock could manage to choke out. He kept his head down.

"I know. And, I am truly sorry."

For nearly half an hour they remained that way. Sherlock folded in on himself, and Mycroft standing watchful guard, hand protectively on his younger brother's shoulder.

"Sherlock?" A familiar voice broke the stillness.

Straightening up slowly, lifting red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks, Sherlock came face to face with the uncharacteristically sullen Dr. Matt MacGregor. "John?" Sherlock whispered, without any preface or note of recognition.

"Still in surgery. It looks like he's going to be fine, though. Recovery will be tedious."

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes. "And?"

"That obvious, huh? He, uhm... They had to resuscitate him twice. He lost a lot of blood, and all the alcohol played havoc with his system." Matt closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Looking Sherlock in the eyes once more, he continued. "He's going to be _fine,_ Sherlock. I promise."

Releasing the shuddering breath he'd been holding, Sherlock slumped back in the chair. "Th-thanks. Thank you, Matt."

"What happened out there?" Matt asked softly, his tone full of concern.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "I was... _we_ were on a case. John and I got separated. There was an ambush. John got shot. Lestrade..." Sherlock's voice broke, and he folded in on himself again.

"Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade was killed in the line of duty this evening," Mycroft explained, with none of his usual matter-of-fact acidity. It was clear this invalided ex-military man was a friend of Dr. Watson's, and by extension, C.I. Lestrade. Tact must remain utmost in such situations.

Matt swore under his breath. "And John was there? Saw the whole thing?" He asked, voice gone thick with emotion as he fought to keep the tears at bay. Sherlock nodded nearly imperceptibly. Matt's profanities were a little louder, and shade more colorful this time. He took a steadying, intentional breath. "Okay. _Okay._ One thing at a time."

Sherlock looked up, confused.

"John needs us now. He needs _you_ , Sherlock. He's going to be fine, but he's going to need to heal before he can mourn properly. He's going to need help. I will do all I can, but I know he's going to need..."

"He needs me." Understanding settled on Sherlock's face.

* * *

 **Tuesday, 22 October, 2024**

"Comfy?" John's voice was thick with sleep and raspy from disuse. The harsh overhead lights burned his eyes. He ached all over, especially his right leg. He felt overly warm and his chest was constricted. All were simply explained, with the exception of the last two.

Oh, he could see the cause of his discomfort easily enough. He was just confused as to _why_ he saw what he did.

John was laying just to the right of the center of the bed, hooked to monitors, IVs, and oxygen. His right thigh was heavily bandaged, and his leg was propped up. A hospital-issued-scrub clad Sherlock was crammed into the small space to John's left, laying on his side so that he could rest his head on John's chest, just above his heart.

Sherlock shook his head no silently in response to John's query.

"Okay... So then, why?" John couldn't quite reach the small cup of ice chips on the wheeled table just to his right. Sherlock reached it easily and held it steady as John fished out a few pieces with a plastic spoon. "Thanks." John patted Sherlock's back with his left hand, which Sherlock had been careful to make sure had remained free.

"It stopped. Twice." Sherlock placed the cup back on the table, but kept the side of his head pressed firmly to John's chest.

John's furled his brow. "What? What stopped? Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed in frustration. "You died. Twice. Your heart stopped two times, John."

"And so you're making sure it's still beating?" John smiled sadly as Sherlock nodded his head in the affirmative. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I just..."

"Don't." Sherlock whispered.

"But Sherlock, I..."

"Please don't... This is my fault. I left you behind. You were shot. You're heart stopped twice. And Greg..." Sherlock brought a hand to his eyes and buried his face in John's chest.

John's breath caught in his throat. "Greg." Silent tears began to stream down his face. "Oh God. Oh..." He closed his eyes tight and laid back against his pillows.

"I thought it was you. I thought _you_ had been killed." Sherlock's voice was tiny and muffled against John. The doctor inhaled sharply, but refrained from commentary. He rested his left hand on Sherlock's shoulder, who shuddered in return. "I found your jacket in a puddle of blood."

"Sherlock..."

"I thought... When they told me it wasn't you, that you'd only been shot, I was relieved. When they showed me Greg's body..." Sherlock sobbed into John's chest. "When I saw with my own eyes, I... was relieved it wasn't you." Mortified, Sherlock started to push himself up and off the bed, but John held him tight by the shoulder. "Later..." his voice wavered. "Here at the hospital, after I found you, when I saw you, is when I really truly realized Greg was gone."

"He was trying to get to me. To help me." John whispered. "I begged him not to, but he wouldn't listen. And... Oh _God_ , Sherlock. It's my fault."

"No, John..."

"It is, Sherlock. He died because he was trying to get to me." John inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "Mary was my fault; she died trying to protect me. Even you... you left to keep me safe."

"John." A hint of warning found its way into Sherlock's tone. "Don't. Do not do that." Sherlock pushed himself up so he could see John's face.

Eyes downcast, John spread his hands, palms up, in front of him. "I just... I..." He sighed and slumped deeper into the bed. "I don't know. I don't know how to do this. How to keep the people we care about safe. How to keep _you_ safe. How to make this hurt less."

"Perhaps Mycroft was correct after all. Perhaps sentiment _is_ a chemical defect. All lives _do_ end, we both know this to be true. All hearts _are_ broken eventually. Caring is most definitely _not_ an advantage." With brow furled, Sherlock watched as a host of emotions manifested across his best friend's face. "It's become painfully obvious to me that I am not willing to, nor am I capable of, extracting myself from this friendship... this bond of brotherhood, that we share, you and I."

"Never. I will never be able to quit this... to walk away from us." John conceded.

"What options do we have then? Caring for others has caused nothing but pain and suffering. Do we proceed with cautious detachment? Just the two of us against the world?" Fingers steepled under his chin, Sherlock had begun a focused pace back and forth across the small room. "I am at the obvious advantage, in that prior to our acquaintance, I lived my life largely separated from other people. Not to mention the fact that I can easily delete the painful memories and current attachments. The process will be decidedly more difficult for you."

"Are you... Are we discussing cutting ties? With _everyone_ , the only exceptions being one another? God, Sherlock. You can't just... You can't delete _people_. Would you really delete Greg? The _one_ person who stood by you when you were an addict? Who essentially gave you the open door you needed to build your career? He bloody saved your life! Without him, you would've died just another junkie behind a skip somewhere. You and I would have never met!" Tears were streaming down John's face once more. "What about his girls? Would you really walk away? Never be called Uncle Sherlock again? And Molly. How would that work? Can you delete personal attachment, but leave just enough professional information to demand lab time and access to the morgue from her?"

Exasperated, Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly at John's side. "Then _what exactly_ do you propose? What's you're solution John? Because this hurts. I've been physically tortured to the point of near death, and this, losing Greg... _this_ is more painful, more scarring, than that. When Mary died? That was worse than torture. And when I thought _you_ were dead? If the day ever comes that you die before I do John, the coroner will need to be prepared to deal with two corpses, because I will not survive in this world without you. I refuse to even consider it."

Despite his tears, John huffed a laugh. "A bit not good, that. But... Thank you. I understand, more than you know. I barely survived the _last time_ you died. I won't be able to the next time." John reached for his friend's hand. Sherlock acquiesced immediately. "When I saw Greg fall, I ran out to his body though we were still under fire. I was a military doctor, that's what I was trained to do. But that was my cover... A small part of me actually ran out there hoping they'd kill me too, so I wouldn't have to live with losing my brother for the rest of my life." The doctor and the consulting detective tightened their grip on each other. "I don't know the answer, Sherlock. I don't have a plan. There aren't _rules_ for these sorts of things. I think our only option is to muck through this together."

"Together," Sherlock whispered as he sat on the edge of John's bed, still holding tight to his friend's hand.

"We're going to be fine, Sherlock." John yawned, exhaustion both physical and emotional, finally overtaking him. Sherlock cast a sidelong, skeptical look at him. "We will be. It will be different than the fine we were with Greg here, holding things together. But we will. We'll figure it out."

"Go to sleep, John. I'll be here when you wake." Sherlock watched John as he drifted off and his breathing evened out. Ever so gently, Sherlock resumed his prior position, crammed onto the edge of John's bed, ear pressed to John's chest, needing to hear the beat, the most literal evidence of the heart of the best and wisest man he had ever known.


End file.
